Once Upon a Nightmare
by Minerva Solo
Summary: Rosenkreuz series. Dark, angsty, and the Schwarz boys take their time all arriving. It's been almost a year, but yes, this stranger in the night is an update.
1. Prologue

Once upon a nightmare 

A/N: First things first, I've wanted to write a Rosenkruez based fic for a while, ever since I started reading Yanagi-sen's. So I feel due credit goes to her for coming up with the idea of basing a fic at Rosenkruez. I doubt she's the only one to do it, but she was the one who inspired me to do it. Hopefully, this will bear no resemblance in plot to Yanagi-sen's, and will be considerably shorter (I like long fics, but having written one that hit 30 parts already I don't want to bore you all to death again).

Basically, this is the story of how Schwarz came together, based around Brad. It ties in with New Rules, in several areas, but if you haven't read New Rules, most things will be self-explanatory. This could be seen as a prequel (yes, I know I promised a sequel, and this ties in to that as well).

Disclaimers: I don't own Schwarz, Rosenkruez or the rest of it and I can't be bothered to think up a witty way of saying that.

Dedication: for today's birthday girl, who knows who she is and probably won't read this for at least a month, but anyway…

Warnings: Um, sap, shounen ai, angst, yaoi, no doubt lots of references to torture and rape and nasty things done to children. We'll see as it goes along. I'll put warnings up on any parts that are particularly bad, but we'll rate this R now, rather than wait for later. Expect references to child prostitution (Schu), sexual abuse (Nagi) and some torture scenes (Farf). I don't know what I'm going to do to poor Brad yet. …

Prologue 

Crawford stretched out on his bed, a box file balancing beside him. Nagi was on a school trip and Farfarello and Schuldig were on a mission. He hadn't seen the need to join them, and he didn't particularly feel like getting messy tonight.

There was a crack of thunder outside. The window showed a sky pregnant with storm clouds, huge drops of rain beginning to plunge out of the sky. Against the white wall the darkly bruised sky was ominous. The lights flickered as a bolt of lighting split into thirteen jagged shafts to attack the city.

Crawford slid his hand into the box and pulled out a handful of miscellaneous bit of paper. He kept most paperwork in his room, which was currently doubling as an office. Never relating to missions though. There was perfectionist, and there was stupid. It was just things like the weapon licenses (forged, but still useful), taking up three box files alone; Farfarello's medication records; Nagi's school records; Schuldig's criminal record… insurance and bills and tax details and mortgage information and every bit of paper most people are supposed to have but mislay were kept on two shelves in box file after box file in neat, stark grey.

The file he held was practically empty. A check, a letter and an adoption certificate were all it contained. 

He studied the check with nostalgic bitterness. The handwriting was childish bordering on infantile, huge rounded letters that looked like they'd been copied off of a blackboard. It was signed by one Schuldig Schwarz. Schuldig could read signs and sign his own name, and that was as educated as he cared to be. Instead of money, the cheque was for the order of 'mein seele', 'my soul'. 

Then the letter. Written in blood, it was a thank you letter from Farfarello. Written in Farfarello's own blood. Crawford wasn't a particularly religious person, but it made him think of signing a pact with the devil. This idea coolly amused him. The letter thanked him, and, more as a polite gesture than actually meaning it, it asked if there was anything Farfarello could do for Crawford to return the favour. When you save a man's life, you own that man's soul.

The adoption certificate was real, created by a young Nagi conscious of the fact he still had a legal existence in Japan. He was the only one of them who legally existed anywhere in the world. He'd hacked into Japan's Social Service's network and found himself, listed as still living with his parents. He'd changed that, putting himself in an orphanage and having Crawford adopt him. It was a lot of paperwork for the pre-teen to do, and the result was a small rectangle of paper declaring Crawford as his legal father.

Crawford smiled. Schwarz were all he had, and he _had_ them. He owned them.

But they owned him, too. Not in paper, not in writing, not even in words. It was just known. Crawford had taken them on, made them his responsibility, and he couldn't abandon them. Co-dependency. They couldn't leave, he couldn't throw them out. Thank you, Rosenkruez, for your brainwashing. The mere idea of life without Schwarz was unimaginable for any of them.

Rosenkruez… He spent most of his time trying not to think of that place. It had been a nightmare, even for teacher's pet Bradley Crawford. But it seemed appropriate, now. They weren't here, and once, a long time ago, there had been a time when they weren't there at all. Lightning flashed again and the room was plunged into darkness. Well, it wasn't as though there was anything else for him to do that evening…

I know, that's a really bad lead in for a flashback. Crawford just randomly decides to have a flashback, rather than check the fuses. Ah well. I'd ask if anyone thought it was worth writing the rest, but I'm going to do it anyway. I write for my pleasure, and the fact people get pleasure from reading what I write is an added bonus. If it starts to suck, you're welcome to stop reading and flame me instead. I'll still keep writing. Of course, reviews _are _wonderful… hinthint 


	2. A Goodbye and a Bad hello

Part One – A goodbye and a bad hello 

He stared at the blood. He'd never realised there would be so much. Seven, eight pints? Of course, he should have known that. His father would sneer at him for not knowing that. Except, it was his father who was doing all the bleeding.

Bradley stared down at the hunting rifle in his hand, pushing his glasses back up his nose and nervous sweat made it slippery. 'What did you do today, Braddy?' 'I shot daddy.' Fifteen years ago. Fifteen years ago he told his nurse he was going to kill the man from whose loins he came. And now he had. It was intoxicating.

His nurse wasn't here now. She'd been fired when Bradley hit ten. He missed her terribly sometimes. But he didn't have time for that now. He had a body here. A body sitting on a toilet in the middle of a forest on a mountain in Japan.

He began to laugh.

He was still laughing when he locked the door and began to wash his fingerprints from everything he could find. It was simple. The police would come and find the door locked from the inside. They would assume Crawford Senior had gone into the bathroom and locked the door, and his unknown assailant had climbed in through the window, which Bradley intended to climb out of. He picked up his father's hand and smeared it over the door handle, careful not to get any blood on it. 

Climbing out the window and re-entering the cottage by the front door, he made certain to clear his tracks. He contemplated on what to do with the gun. Leave it, or take it? He smiled. Leave it where he found it, over the fireplace. They'd assume the attacker took his gun with him. Of course, Bradley's fingerprints would be everywhere as well, but he was staying there. Perhaps… perhaps they'd assume he heard the shot and chased the killer, to be killed in the woods? He made certain to smear fingerprints all over the outside of the bathroom door, making it look like he'd been trying to force his way in.

He collected another pair of boots and walked out of the lodge. He left the front door hanging open and ran across the earth, leaving heavy boot prints. When he was well into the forest and leaving no tracks, he changed boots and ran back to the bathroom window and away again. 

There. Done.

Bradley Crawford Junior, eighteen today, sat done and cried like a child half his age.

* * * 

He was a practical young man by nature, and pragmatic. He'd committed patricide. While anyone who'd known his father would have considered it a perfectly reasonable action, he doubted the law would be so considerate. He'd covered it up pretty well, he felt, but that still left him penniless and alone in a country where he couldn't even speak the language.

He considered his options. Make his way into a city and find a police station, and report his father's death, blaming a man who'd fled, or flee himself. He didn't want to bring the police into this. He'd been thorough, but no doubt there were still some clues to his crime. Like the gun. Damnit, why hadn't he cleaned the gun? It would show evidence of recently being used.

No, best not to tell anyone. Perhaps, by the time anyone figured it out, it'd be too late. Perhaps not. His head began to hurt. A vision. His father had beaten him for the visions, once upon a time; beaten him for his lies and imagination. Then he'd found out they were real, that Bradley could see the future. And the already rich Bradley Crawford Senior had used him to make money on the stock market, in Las Vegas, anywhere he could.

And Bradley had found his own uses for it. It didn't help him in shooting, though he seemed to have a talent for that already, and it wouldn't help him win races, but he hadn't lost a fight yet. Boxing. The thrill of controlling a match, controlling another man, the thrill of being ultimately in control.

Images flickered behind closed eyelids. Men and women from around the world, inviting him to join them inviting him to learn to control this gift. Not judging him for what he had just done. Giving him control over people.

Control. He liked control. His father had never let him control anything. He wasn't good enough. He had to be controlled. But it had been the other way around, in those final few moments. He'd had control, he'd had _power._ Suddenly, control wasn't such a big thing. Power was what he wanted. It was what his father had wanted, and Bradley finally understood why. He'd been a god, in those fateful moments, taking life from those who deserved to die. The power, the control, it made him dizzy. He had a power. He would learn to control it. He would have power _and_ control over other people.

He felt sick, just a little. He'd enjoyed his father's death. There were no regrets, other than the potential jail sentence were he caught. But he knew he shouldn't have done it, that he was legally free of the man as it was. Guilt shimmered like a heat haze at the back of his mind. He'd ended a life, and he'd enjoyed it. Hell, he'd gotten off on it, now he came to think of it. He had a hard on to be proud of. He had had power, he had had control, and he had been God.

That was the last time he felt guilt for killing another person, as he jacked off under the tree. Power was what filled his mind, now revenge was dealt with.

* * * 

They would meet him at the airport. It was a long walk, but he could hitchhike. Still, it would take a while. He rubbed his eyes and squinted through the trees, trying to work out which direction would take him to the road quickest. His head hurt. Not a vision headache now, just eyestrain. First thing, he was going to get glasses.

It took him a day and a half to reach the airport, a lonely teenager hitchhiking across a foreign country. He learnt contempt in the journey, especially for his fellow countrymen. But then, he'd never liked America much.

They stood in a row, identical charcoal suits, identical expressions. Two men and a woman. They each shook his hand, solemnly. It was like a funeral.

Bradley realised with some chagrin that he didn't have a passport with him, in fact, he had no ID at all. This worked out in his favour, however, when one of them handed him a German passport under a different name, but with his picture. He felt his chest swell; these people were like him, these people were superior to everyone else in the airport, these people had _known_.

They sat together in first class, Bradley unimpressed by such luxury, used as he was to it. He felt a buzz in the back of his mind, which eventually resolved itself into words.

*Good. * An English voice chuckled. Looking around his new 'friends', Bradley guessed correctly it belonged to the ginger haired man. *Most take much longer to accustom themselves to this. You are not… put out? *

*Not at all, * Bradley thought, trying to work out if he was doing this correctly.

*Perfectly correct, Mr Crawford. You have strong mental shields, but it's nice to see you can, so to speak, think outside the box. * The Briton smiled. It was cold. *My name is Gregory May. My companions are Ute Hertz and Jacqueline DuBois. Do you speak German? *

*To an extent, * Crawford replied guardedly. *If I might ask, why aren't we conducting this conversation out loud? *

*Too dangerous. If someone were to overhear us, we would have to kill them, and that could cause… problems. * The English was guttural, and Crawford identified the accent as German. So this was Herr Hertz. The name itself was ominous, and the short man had an air of sadism around him. He was balding on top and his suit was ill-fitting. From where he was sitting, Crawford could see the butt of a gun in a shoulder holster.

*You understand how this is done, oui? Telepathy. Monsieur May is a telepath. * Madame DuBois was about forty, with long bleached hair and huge hoop earrings. While there was nothing wrong with this look on the right person, she struck Crawford as mutton dressed as lamb, and, more particularly, a tart.

*If it is not rude to ask, * Crawford was still establishing ground rules, *what powers do you two have? *

*I am a healer, * Hertz told him. Crawford's spine crawled. * And Frau Dubois is a seer, like you. *

*I know very little about what is happening, * Crawford admitted.

*We are taking you to Rosenkruez, in Germany. It is an institution dedicated to helping psychically able jungendliche such as yourself become accustomed to work in amongst mere mortals. * The sheer arrogance in Herr Hertz's tone appealed to Crawford, confirming everything he had suspected about himself. * We will train you to deal with your gift, to direct it and filter it and stay sane. *

*That's a common problem, * Mr May explained. *We lose a lot of students to insanity. Especially telepaths and telempaths. The world is not a pleasant place, as you are no doubt aware. Also, many of our students have had tumultuous childhoods. Those with talents that manifest themselves obviously, telekinetics and pyrokinetics, for example, often find themselves the victims of abuse. *

*My father was not exactly understanding about my gift, * Bradley told them. *I have some measure of control over it already. It's been extremely useful in fights. *

*So you can fight? * The tone was slightly suggestive, but of what, Bradley wasn't sure. Herr Hertz gave him a grimace, which, almost an hour later, he realised was supposed to be a reassuring smile. He didn't like this as much as he had. But still, they weren't asking any questions about his father, and that was a good start.

"We are now landing at Berlin airport," a cheery voice announced.

It occurred to Bradley, that perhaps it was a very bad start. 


	3. No Midnight Parties in These Dorms

Part Two – No midnight parties in these dorms 

Thank you for all reviews so far! Few things:

Quatorze: thank you for pointing out (a) my mispelling of Rosenkreuz. It'll probably continue for a bit, until I get used to spelling it the right way, but it ought to change. It's probablynot the only daft mistake I've made! Also, thank you for pointing out (b) that Ute was a woman's name. I got it from the front of a German dictionary (put it this way, it was that or Adolf). Let's say it's the reason Hertz is such a bastard, the fact he's got a woman's name. Evil parents! He'll just be Hertz from now on anyway.

Blue Silhuette: thank you!

Yami no Tenshi: I'm guessing you're not English, as yes, you're right about the interpretation, and it's not an uncommon phrase over here. ^_^ There's probably going to be a lot of colloquialisms, so speak up anytime I start writing complete nonsense! 

Bradley had been an only child. He'd never had to share anything. He'd hated the loneliness, but now he craved it.

They'd arrived in Germany and set off on a long drive. A very long drive. With no stops. Most of the way across Germany. No matter how good Bradley's geography was, he couldn't work out where they were. He'd sat in the limo, polite and silent and slowly getting more worried. 

They'd arrived, finally, and he's asked, quite politely, where the bathroom was. The look he received had frozen him in his tracks. He'd been led through what seemed like (and, he found out later, actually was) miles of identical grey corridors with plaster boarded walls. They'd arrived at a pale metal door, which Crawford had gratefully assumed was a bathroom, to find himself shoved into what might be termed as a bathroom in England, but had not been what he'd meant. A busty woman, again wearing a charcoal grey suit, shoved him into what he realised was a shower cubicle.

When he was younger, he'd enjoyed watching Charlie's Angels'. In one episode, they'd ended up in prison. They'd been showered and sprayed for bugs. As he stared down the row of cubicles, which allowed both him and the woman nearby to see everything, he began to wish he'd actually gone to a real prison. His mind was throwing up images of what he was going to go through in the next few months, or maybe even years. Real prisons were regulated, were policed.

The water came on with no warning. It was icy. He glowered at the tiles as shards of ice pelted his still fully clothed body. He ducked suddenly. A whip cracked over his head.

Take off those clothes, a voice barked in German. Crawford wanted to tell her exactly what she could do with that whip, but he took off his clothes without protest. He knew what would happen if he didn't.

Looking along the row of showers, he saw several other students of mixed sex. A girl had her arms wrapped around herself and was crying, a boy was making the water turn to steam, another girl was refusing to take her clothes off. Suddenly a boy stepped into the cubicle next to him. He was naked already, and noticed Bradley looking. He wriggled his hips lewdly.

Bradley looked away. He didn't blush, but he made it obvious he didn't want to see what the boy was clearly trying to show him. Except part of him did. Of course, this boy was younger than he was, perhaps fifteen, sixteen? But there had been other men, men at the boxing matches, who'd made him think similar thoughts.

You want fun, ja? the boy grinned. Bradley re-estimated, thirteen, probably. Far too young, really.

No, thank you, he said coolly, concentrating on washing himself.

You know Greg? the boy asked, hope lacing the nasal voice.

Brad paused. Could he mean Gregory May? English, ginger? he asked. The boy nodded. He was leaning over the waist high cubicle wall and giving Bradley appreciative leers. Orange hair stuck out in all directions. He was pitifully thin and badly sunburnt. He brought me here, Bradley told him. I haven't seen him since.

I here long time, the boy told him conversationally. He nodded, as if he expected Bradley to have the faintest idea what he was on about. he sighed.

There was a snap as the water went off, water hissing down drains. The woman gestured for them all to step out of the showers. The girl who'd refused to take her clothes off had disappeared during Bradley's conversation, and there was a streak of blood in the drains.

Bradley actually had some idea of what was going to happen next, but his new companion seemed horrified as they were sprayed. 

[trans – What?!] he yelped as the cold spray doused him.

Bradley correctly guessed. The redhead looked insulted, and started yelling at the woman.

The whip cracked out. The boy screamed as it bit into his shoulder, drawing blood. He kept screaming. He was dragged out of the room with his hands over his ears, screaming and shrieking like his world was coming to an end. Bradley couldn't understand what had elicited such a violent reaction.

The sexes were separated then, lead to room where their heads were shaved and piles of ill-fitting uniforms were handed to them. Bradley stared at the grey cloth, folded into neat piles that filed his arms. This was a prison, not only of the body, but of the mind. There was no control to be had here, no power; just rules laid down by petty minded individuals who had suffered the same at the hands of a previous generations individuals.

He dressed in silence, noticing his fellow students were considerably younger than him. The youngest he'd seen had been the boy in the showers; the eldest after himself was perhaps sixteen. They were led to a hall and made to stand in stiff rows. Bradley noticed the trimming on the uniforms came in three colours, blue, red and the occasional yellow. He was a blue.

a voice boomed from the front of the stone hall. This is Rosenkreuz. It will be your home for the next three years, and possibly much longer. We will train you to control your powers, to control yourselves and to control others. _Check, check and check,'_ Crawford smirked inwardly. You have been taught to believe you are freaks, that you are outcasts, that you are unfortunate. We are here to tell you that you are the most fortunate people o the planet! You are superior to the race that spawned you! You have power. Do not be afraid to use it against those who would have used it against you. Here, there are no crimes. 

However, there are rules, and if they are broken there will be swift and strict retribution. Do as you are told, and you will become an integral cog in the Rosenkreuz system. Do otherwise, and you will become a spanner in the works. If you find someone else doing something against the rules, report them! We strive to make the world better for ourselves and people like ourselves. The rules help us achieve that aim. Those who break them are a menace and will destroy us all!

You are wondering, what are these rules? There is a strict timetable here. You will learn it as you go along. You will only be guided to each class once, you will only be told each thing once. You will not harm an older student, you will not harm a teacher, you will not harm Estet.

Crawford tuned out the rest of the brainwashing propaganda and contemplated those three key points. Older students could harm them, teachers could harm them, Estet' could harm them. It was survival of the fittest. He could cope with that, he enjoyed a competitive atmosphere. It saved competing against himself. He assumed Estet was the company for which they were being trained. The word hung heavy on the tongue, and made Bradley think of storm troopers and death camps. Was this his Auschwitz?

The speaker droned on, spouting more intolerant rubbish. Words like spawned' reminded Crawford that they really were superior to mere Homo sapiens, but those in charged seemed to take it as an excuse to disregard the race. In Crawford's mind, they could not be underestimated.

After you leave, you have two choices. Remain here and become part of the Rosenkruez system, or work in the field. Field operatives have many duties, often bringing in new recruits. If you are deemed worthy, you will fall under the control of Estet, our parent organisation. There your eyes will be opened to a new world of possibilities, tailored to suit your talents.

Field Operatives? Free from Rosenkruez. This was what Crawford had seen for himself, head of a small team. Power over a select group of individuals. The potential for reward and for promotion. For greater power.

* Listen! * a voice commanded, shattering his concentration. Mr May was watching from the other side of the hall. *Watch, * it insisted.

Crawford watched. The man at the front strode up and down, and finally Bradley recognised him as Herr Hertz. His head began to throb. He regretted not listening harder. This was going to be his life, this was going to be his glory! The glory of Estet would be his glory, and

Propaganda. Brainwashing. Hypnosis, maybe. Crawford kept control over his mind, and he began to recognise what the Englishman had earlier referred to as mental shields' locking in place. He was no fool. He was no puppet.

* * *

Bradley surveyed the dormitory. They'd been made to go to a public bathroom earlier, a drain, really. He hadn't gone, neither needing nor wanting to. He had no intention of baring anything in front of twenty-four other boys. He was an only child, so-called modest', never sharing a room, never sharing a bath. He didn't want to be surveyed by prying eyes, like those of the redhead from earlier.

The dormitory held fifty, it seemed. Twelve bunks along facing walls and a single bed at each end. First years took lower bunks, second upper. Two third year prefects policed the rooms, one in each single bed. This room was reserved for blue males, it seemed.

The filed in, each allocated to a bed, and told to lie down. Crawford hadn't realised how tired he was until he was horizontal but he doubted he'd get much sleep. The mattress was a cotton pallet, the pillow only a pillowcase, and a single blanket for warmth. He could feel the slats of wood through the padded cotton.

Second years marched into the room. There were considerably less of them. Fifteen, Bradley estimated sleepily. A boy of about fifteen took the bunk above his. His skin was sallow and his hair greasy, and he winked at Bradley. Malicious vindictiveness oozed from every blocked pore like an oily fish. It occurred to Bradley to wonder exactly how long it would take for liquid to soak through one of these mattresses. Judging by some of the other boys' nervousness and backgrounds, he figured he'd find out before long.

He regretted his thoughts. He regretted not taking advantage of the drain. Still, he figured he could find his way back there. He'd been in bed perhaps an hour when he decided it was worth testing this theory.

The moment his foot his the floor he was blinded. A third year stood over him, glowering.

Where do you think you're going? He was probably the same age as Bradley, blonde hair curling around Grecian features, like a statue of Heracles.

To the bathroom, Bradley told him coldly.

he gave his fellow youth an incredulous stare.

You had your chance. You will not leave this dormitory, you will not leave you _bed,_ until tomorrow morning when you are summoned to prepare for lessons. Understood?

I need to use the bathroom, Bradley stated. He could feel the room watching him.

Well, you ain't going to the bathroom, yank. Less you want to find out first hand how fast liquid goes through these pads. The boy shoved him back on to the bed. Consider this your first warning. We ain't usually so generous, but this being your first night an' all

The light went out. Bradley lay down again and thought of other things, but getting no sleep.


	4. From Dusk 'Til Dawn

Chapter Three – From Dawn 'til Dusk 

First appearance of Tanya, who appears in NRNR. If you don't know her, it doesn't matter. I'm just trying to persuade people to read my other stuff! Just to make a distinction here: when I say clairvoyance I'm using it to refer to the ability to tell an object or person's past and possible future from touching it, not the ability to see the future. I know they're usually defined as the same thing, but Stephen King's 'The Dead Zone' confused me prior to writing NRNR, and I thought I'd be consistent. They are usually treated as the same power, especially since most 'fairground seers' touch personal items to divine a person's future. 

They rose with the dawn. Bradley hoped in vain this meant they'd get a lie-in in winter, but he doubted it. The stone floored room was cold and he was about to dress when a whistle went. Wearing Rosenkruez issue pyjamas, the boys trooped out of the room, carrying their day clothes.

They were told their timetable. Every day, the same. No weekends, no holidays. Wake up. Breakfast. General tutoring on their powers. Estet studies. Ten minute break. Psychic History. Half hour lunch. General education. Physical Education. Supper. Lecture in the hall. Own time. Showers. Bed. They would use the bathroom three times a day. Morning and evening was that accursed drain, lunch there would be toilets, but still no privacy. Bradley couldn't understand why they were so against privacy.

Breakfast was gruel. Nourishing gruel, but still gruel. Tasteless, slimy, cold, viscous porridge. Bradley forced himself to eat it all. Others couldn't stomach it.

General psychic tutoring consisted of an introduction to the various gifts and their general applications. They were split according to talent. Bradley was a 'passive mental', a group including post-cognition, pre-cognition and clairvoyance. Telepathy and telempathy were classed as 'active mental', but they were extremely rare and most couldn't project anyway. They were the yellow trim. The others were red trim, 'active physical', the telekinetics and pyrokinetics and healers.

Bradley found himself in a group of ten seers. Four were blind, he noted. Two were obviously insane. One was extremely weak. There were only two like Bradley within the group, both quite young. The visions had become really powerful for them yet. The two insane members of the group, and three of the blind members were all over sixteen. That was when they started hitting hard. All four of the blind members reported losing their sight as the visions increased in strength and potency. Bradley remembered how much he needed glasses, and prayed he didn't go the same way. He was quite attached to the visual world.

Then came Estet studies. More mindless propaganda and brainwashing. Bradley was getting a distinctly uneasy feeling about the organisation, especially when he noted the list of clients. All rich, all illegally so, many dead. They spoke of field teams acting as bodyguards and aides to these clients, keeping a close eye on their activites and doing whatever they asked as long as it was within Estet's guidelines. And as long as it didn't harm Estet, anything went. Including murder. Crawford felt almost relieved.

For the ten-minute break they were released into an open-air courtyard or concrete and stone. Bradley spotted a drain in a shaded corner and decided that it didn't matter who saw him, that he controlled his own body and he was going to do as he pleased. One boy had wet himself earlier, and he was still wearing the urine-soaked clothes. He'd be wearing them for the rest of the week, Bradley had discovered. That was definitely a deterrent.

A shadow loomed over him as he zipped up his trousers. "You ain't s'posed to do that," a voice growled. '_Wonderful_,' Brad thought as he turned around, '_a stereotypical thug. He's probably got the IQ of a beetle and the build of a freight train.'_ He was pleasantly surprised. The boy was about the same age and height as himself, though he lacked the muscles Bradley had.

"Really?" Crawford smiled like a shark.

"You go when they say you go, first year. I heard about you last night, which means you've had your first warning." _'News gets around fast,'_ Crawford mused. This could definitely be used to his advantage, at some point.

"So what happens next?" he enquired, still smiling.

"I take you to a tutor, and you'll be punished." The image of the whip flashed through Bradley's mind, and he made a decision. One fist snapped out and delivered a blow, which, after years of boxing lessons, slammed into the other boy's kidney and sent him staggering backwards into the filthy brick wall.

"I'm not to be bullied," Crawford told him coldly. The smile was really unnerving the courtyard's other occupants as they watched the little drama. "I am an adult, and I will not to pushed around by petty children. I have killed a man for less."

It was a half-truth. He'd killed a man, his father, but it had been for so much more. Still it had the intended effect. As far as he could see, the other students would be no problem. He was taller, heavier and more muscular than almost all of them, having been in a serious minority when it came to healthy eating and regular exercise. He doubted some of them had ever seen a meal consisting of the four basic food groups in their life, at least not a whole plate's worth.

"Hello," a voice purred unnervingly close to him.

He didn't spin round. He didn't jump. He didn't appear to care that someone had managed to sneak up on him at all. Inside, his inner voice yelled '_shit shit shit! How the fuck did someone do that?'_

"Good morning," he tilted his head to observe the person, a girl about a foot shorter than himself, swathed in cloth.

"I am Tanya." The voice carried a hint of a Russian accent. Bradley turned slowly, and found the image that presented itself very easy on the eye. She was perhaps a year younger than him, with soft brown hair cut in a bob and dark eyes ringed with perhaps a little too much eye makeup. He noted the shoulder length gloves and thigh high boots with interest, and the thick velvet scarf that covered most of her face was accompanied by a wide brimmed hat that prevented anyone getting too close.

"I am Bradley Crawford," he told her blandly, his voice carrying no hint of his interest in her.

"You are new?" the accent was exotic, and appealing. As he continued to look her over, he realised the only visible skin on her body was around her eyes.

"Quite."

"What are you?" Bradley frowned. Male? Caucasian? American? Atheist? About 190cm? "I am a clairvoyant," she explained enigmatically.

"Ah," he offered a polite smile. "I am a seer, it seems."

"You can see?" she frowned.

"I'm a little short sighted, but yes. I take it blindness is common among those with my talent."

"That or madness." She sighed. "So many lose the distinction between now and then. Walk with me?" Bradley fell into step with her as she began to lead him around the small area. "I am in my third year here. There are four groups per year. You're a winter, as I was. It depends what time they bring you in. Most students couldn't wait an entire year, and you can't join a year once it's begun, so they split it into four.

"There are four years here. You seem to have a good grasp on your gift, and know how to handle yourself, so I'll offer some advice. Suck up. Worship them. Worship Rosenkruez, worship Estet. Make it seem like the brainwashing has had a serious effect. They'll probably move you up a year. You want to spend as little time here as possible."

"Thank you," Bradley said, sincerely grateful.

A bell tolled. The scarf moved, and Bradley realised that Tanya was smiling at him. He smiled back, and trooped inside with his fellow winter first years. They were about halfway to Psychic History when it occurred to him he was still smiling.

* * *

Psychic history. More brainwashing. The glory of Estet. The glory of Rosenkruez. The glory of being one of a select few with a gift. The glory of what could be achieved with that gift.

And if you didn't pay attention you found yourself slammed into the ceiling. The telekinetic who taught was clearly weaker than several of the red students who joined them for this class, but it wasn't a demonstration that needed to be repeated more than once. Crawford took note of this.

Lunch was the same gruel as breakfast, with some limp vegetable's and a lump of bread. Bradley ate in silence, staring around the room. More people were eating than at breakfast, but there were less present. It didn't bode well. At one of the other cast iron tables, he spotted Tanya, obvious in her outlandish clothing. There were a few others with her, all wearing gloves and scarves, but none as covered as she was. Bradley guessed correctly that she was the most powerful among them. Crawford liked power…

General Studies was dull. It relied on the fact that most students had had a junior school education, which many hadn't, but had never got any further, as some had. Bradley listened to the European history with a faint interest, having focused on his own countries previously, but the maths was absurdly simple and he already spoke both German and English. Other students were struggling to write their own names. 

The teacher was a harried looking old man, clearly displeased with having such an arduous task forced upon him, and soon recruited Bradley's help to teach the other students. It was a tolerable lesson, but Bradley was concerned at how much he enjoyed putting disobedient students in their places. He was beginning to notice a distinction between Bradley, the man he'd been when he'd killed his father, and Crawford, the man he would be by the time he left this place. However, he realised 'Bradley' would never survive this place while 'Crawford' would, and his innate self-preservation stopped him from contemplating that matter too deeply. 

To his surprise, he enjoyed the physical education. They got to wear different clothes for this, shorts and rugby jerseys, and the cold air was invigorating. The games were interesting though, and Bradley found himself learning more about what they were being trained for from their subjects than from their teachers. Rugby, men's lacrosse, hockey… Contact sports, without padding. Cold, wet, muddy contact sports.

And then there were the indoor sports: boxing, wrestling, fencing and martial arts. As the year progressed they'd be taught different forms of each; drunken boxing A/N no blocking, just dodging, like in The Matrix. You see them uploading it into Neo's brain early on ^_^ Random fact! , Thai boxing, karate, judo, ju jitsu, aikido…There was also a lot of emphasis on track events, but not on things like shot put or long jump. So, fighting and running. Really useful life skills.

Bradley had an advantage over almost every other student, with his overachieving background. He'd spent years doing boxing lessons, played in every school sports team, been hunting with his father ever since he was ten. He went to the gym on a regular basis, and this routine exercise appealed to him. Of course, not everyone had this attitude, and the teachers soon picked him out and praised him. The most unwilling were beaten, in front of the other students. Crawford watched the blood sink into the grass in a detached manner as another unconscious student was carried away. Tanya's suggestion was extremely appealing.

Supper was different to Breakfast and Lunch, to Bradley's surprise. There was actual meat, though what kind was questionable, and the vegetables were still green compared to the earlier grey, and there were even potatoes, or possibly stones. Still, there was a desert. Semolina and jam.

Something in the desert spoke to Bradley, and he spent more time admiring it than eating it. It was traditional school dinner fare, affectionately nicknamed things like 'septic wound' and 'snot and blood'. It was cold, and slimy, and flavourless, but it was encouraging to see that this was a real school. Perhaps he would survive, if he played it carefully.

The bell tolled, signalling the end of supper, and Bradley marched with the other students into the drafty hall. The lecture was oddly similar to the one they'd received on the first night, glorifying Rosenkruez and Estet. Bradley resolved to listen to these and to think as they wanted him to, in case Mr May was nearby again. It wouldn't do to idolise his superiors on the outside and hate them on the inside, not with a telepath around.

As they left the lecture Bradley had a sinking sensation. Estet was for life. It took lives, it seemed, and it expected them to do the same. He wasn't certain he could square that with himself, not yet. Part of him reminded him of the power, the control he'd felt in committing patricide, but another part rejected that as a deep founded hatred of his father. Still, to take a life was to play God, in part. God gave life, and God took it away. It was power in its purest form. Of course, as an atheist, he didn't believe in God, and that some how made it worse. 

Tanya was waiting for him, and Bradley gladly pulled himself away from these morbid thoughts to great her. The scarf shifted, and he guessed another smile. She gestured for him to follow her.

"During this time you're expected to do any work set," she explained, "but as a third year I'm allowed to detain you. I see you've already started doing as I suggested. Teaching could be interesting, you'll get to meet so many more students."

"Students?" Bradley gave her a humourless grin, "I thought we were inmates."

"Your sense of humour is to die for," she joked grimly. Bradley understood the none too subtle hint. "I want to explain more to you."

"Why? Why take the time out to help a lower student?" Bradley watched her closely. With most of her face hidden it was hard to judge her moods, but he was a fast learner.

"Call it an investment," she told him. "You have immense power, and if you do well expect me to share your glory. I have aspirations of becoming a team leader, and you'd be useful."

"No," Bradley told her simply. "You don't know me yet. I'll share neither glory nor shame. I will be no man's, or woman's, inferior. If there is power, I _will_ have it."

"I see. We are alike, you and I." Tanya brushed his face with a gloved hand. "I brought you your glasses," she produced them like a magician.

"Thank you. It seems I am falling into your debt," Bradley accepted them and slipped them onto the bridge of his nose. He was delighted with the result. The world became clearer, sharper, and his eyestrain began to lessen almost immediately. He looked around like he was seeing things for the first time, which in some ways he was.

"I know," she laughed throatily, and Bradley found himself blushing. He _wanted_ this woman like he'd wanted no one else he'd ever met. She had _power._

"You were going to tell me something," he prompted awkwardly; aware that her laugh had prompted a reaction from himself that wasn't entirely welcome.

"Yes, I was, wasn't I? You're in a hurry to get out of here. Honestly, I don't know why it took them so long to find you in the first place, but I suppose you weren't making many waves. But you must understand, most never leave.

"What you see here in the school. But this is only a small portion of the building. The laboratories take up most of it. Most 'students' end up there at least once. You see, they still don't know what causes psychic powers. DNA is the most recent craze, I think. Many students become permanent residents.

"There are a few escape routes. You can work here, which means spending several extra years in another part of the complex to train. This keeps you from the laboratories, and many, many students do this. Most don't survive the training. 

"You can become an agent for Estet, a bureaucrat, really. There's another part of the building for paper pushers, but many actually leave here. This is what I want to be. Get further into the system, and take control. It's badly run, in my current opinion. I could do better.

"Or you can become a field agent. Relative independence, but much severer penalties. You spend a year in practice on the field, then come back here for more training. To be a team leader, as you wish to be, requires another two years. You don't get to pick your team, but if they find people you work well with you can persuade them. You don't get to pick where you go, but if you speak the native language you're more likely to be picked. And you have no control over what you do. They will tell you, and you will do."

"I think the third option is the most appealing." Bradley had noted the arrogance in Tanya's tone that seemed to affect anyone here a long time. It was the brainwashing, really. Bradley had spotted a few flaws within the system as well, and he was willing to agree that Tanya could do it better.

"To many it is. There's a high turn over," Tanya warned, "and Estet has a wide influence. You could find yourself working with anyone from petty crooks to politicians."

"Aren't they the same thing?" Bradley smirked.

"Politics, Made from the word poly, meaning many, and the word tics, bloodsucking insects." Bradley laughed warmly, and Tanya laughed as well. There was a conflict within him, warning him that this place was terrible, and ought to be left, but also telling him that it wasn't as bad as all that. He had a suspicion that this was the 'Bradley' view and the 'Crawford' view, and he wondered if he wasn't on the way to developing some kind of split personality.

A final bell tolled.

"I will see you tomorrow," Tanya told him airily, sweeping away down the corridor and leaving Bradley to find his own way to the shower block.

* * *

Bradley lay on the bed, wet hair soaking through the pillow and the 'mattress' to drip onto the bare floor. There was silence throughout the dorm as others feared to so much as breath heavily. It seemed their third years were in a foul mood tonight.

Tanya flitted through his mind. He wasn't sure whether he ought to follow up this attraction, or try and repress it. He got the impression that romance was frowned upon at Rosenkruez. Still, she was helpful, and a little flattery could go a long way. It would be nice to see the rest of her face. He didn't dare contemplate her body as a whole, so out of his reach did it seem. That and the fact that it's a little awkward jerking off in a room containing forty-one other hot-blooded males.


	5. Moving On

Chapter Four – Moving on 

The first of the Brad torture. Nothing too graphic, though, just lots of references to potentially graphic stuff.  

Romilly McAran: Yay! Another Pratchett fan! I love those books. I wish he actually told us what Politician literally means, though. Vetinari is far and away one of my favourite characters. 

Alz: Yay! Thank you! 

Everybody else: Coz I can't remember when I did this last time, thank you too! 

The next few weeks past in a very similar fashion, with Tanya explaining more of Rosenkruez's inner workings each day. The food remained identical, and Bradley suspected they kept reusing leftovers each meal, so that the reason the semolina tasted nothing like semolina was because it was the remainder of breakfast and lunch's gruel. The lessons kept up the level of brainwashing, and Bradley played along, nodding and singing Estet's praises until his throat was hoarse. He continued to help in general studies, learning patience to an excessive degree as he explained for what seemed like the millionth time the difference between Atlanta and Atlantis, or a 2 and a 5.

Once, he saw the redheaded boy in the corridors. The boy gave him the finger, and Bradley ignored him. The people leading him were wearing the white coats of the laboratory, and Bradley doubted he'd see the kid again.

He was wrong, in that respect. Three nights in a row he dreamt of the boy, screaming in a white room until Mr May came to him, then calming down and apparently begging for release in turn for sexual favours. On the fourth night, he dreamt that Mr May refused.

Bradley knew perfectly well that these were visions. They weren't the normal, short-sighted visions that helping him in everyday life, they were pictures of a future that might be. He wondered if his visions were immutable, or whether they could be changed.

On the fifth night, Mr May refused and left, but the boy stopped screaming. Bradley watched as he paced the room, stooping to examine a small drain in the centre. Tanya had explained the layout of these confinement areas, as they were known, and the small drain led straight to a sewer. It was an entirely unpleasant arrangement, but it didn't seem to bother the boy. He managed to pull out the grate, and explored the drain with his thin arms. Bradley smirked in his sleep as both he and the boy realised the drain was actually much wider, and only tiles were keeping the access so small. It took a lot of effort, but the boy was thin, and soon he'd created a small enough gap to fit through.

It didn't occur to Crawford to do anything with this. If the boy got away, good for him. Bu he noticed the treatment of his peers worsen as time past, and came to realise that no matter how docile and obedient he was, it wouldn't be long before he started to get the same treatment.

Beatings seemed a regular part of Rosenkruez life. Bradley took it as 'character building' and accepted it. But Tanya warned him of a much darker side to Rosenkruez's discipline regime, one he refused to accept at first.

The first death was in Physical Education. It was accidental, as a boy was beaten overzealously. Then in Psychic history the teacher wilfully took a life. This shocked the students, watching a girl's heart being ripped still beating from her chest. What worried Bradley most was that it was only shock, not horror. It was accepted in the same cold-blooded manner everything here was. Blood flecked his cheek as the heart was crushed into juicy pulp, and the girl collapsed over a desk. They let her corpse stay there for the rest of the day.

Bradley's dreams had been silent that night. He barely slept, waking from a light doze for a reason he couldn't immediately grasp. He wished he could see the stars, see the sky, but there was no indication of passing time in the dormitory. This was why he didn't know what time it was when the boy from the bunk above his staggered in, naked from the waist down and bleeding.

Rape.

Tanya had warned him, but it had seemed too extreme. Somehow, death was easier to accept. People died all the time. It was a fact of life. But rape was something that sheltered little Bradley Crawford Junior had never been forced to confront before. It made him feel sick.

* * *

*You aren't paying attention, * A crisp English accent interrupted his thoughts. *I warned you. After this, come to me. *

Bradley jerked slightly, and focused on Herr Hertz, delivering yet another mind numbingly hyperbolic lecture on the glory of Estet. Bradley's mental shields slammed down, but he knew the damage was done.

* Yes, Mr May, * he responded meekly.

A vision flashed briefly before his open eyes, and he felt sick. They were going to go to Mr May's rooms. Mr May was going to ask him to perform fellatio.

He had to prevent this! '_There's no way I'm going down on another man, not unwillingly… Not at all_,' he hastily corrected himself. He wasn't interested in men in that way. And if Mr May got what he wanted, he'd never would be.

This would be the first test, he decided, of how far his visions could be altered. Because, well, he wasn't going give Mr May a blowjob no matter what. His stomach lurched at the thought.

Mr May led him to the neat suite of rooms as promised, and Bradley stood awkwardly in the main living area. Mr May offered him a drink, but he declined. They faced each other, and Bradley watched the gingerhaired Englishman, barely older than himself, begin to unzip his trousers.

"You understand a lot about Rosenkruez punishments by now, I think?" Bradley nodded. "You'll understand you're getting off easily. I want you to perform fellatio. You know what that means? Good. I like you, and you've been a model student, but this isn't the first time your attention has wandered during a lecture."

"It's not that I don't appreciate the glory of Estet, and our potential to become part of it," Bradley explained softly, "I just don't feel that hearing about it for an hour a day is a constructive use of our time. We could be working towards helping Estet, rather than listening to Herr Hertz telling us we ought to be doing just that."

"I agree, and I'm glad I usually live a long way from here, just to stay away from that annoying prick, but it's the principle of the thing." Gregory walked over to Bradley and rested a hand gently on his shoulder. "You've never done this before, have you?"

"If I could show my wholehearted support for Estet in another way, would I be let off?" Crawford took the plunge.

Gregory lifted his hand form Crawford's shoulder. He sensed the change in the young man. "How do you mean?" he asked suspiciously.

"I've been having visions. It's my gift. Recently, I've been dreaming them, which usually only happens when it's some distance from happening, but could change the course of many events."

"How do you know this?" Gregory folded his arms and stared at Crawford. "If you've been withholding information, there'll be trouble."

"Partly through the lessons, partly through experience. I admit, I could have acted upon this earlier, but I wanted to speak to you first, as it involves you intimately." Crawford began to reel the Briton in carefully. If he were to escape what had seemed to be his fate, he would have to play it very cautiously.

"We haven't seen each other for a while" Gregory said softly. "I've been avoiding the lecture when I can, and we move in different areas. Go on…"

"There is a certain boy, with hair approximately the same shade as your own?"

"Yes…"

"He… I think he is attached to you. You visit him, correct?"

"You know all this from the vision?" Bradley allowed the suspicious telepath access to the visions that had tormented his nights for almost a week. Gregory watched the scenes play out. "He'll escape?"

"I believe so."

"I believe not," Gregory told him with a contemptuous laugh. "No one escapes from Rosenkruez. You did right to come to me first with that information, but in future you can go to anyone. I will let you off your punishment," he mused, "but I think you ought to visit Madame DuBois. You seem to be confusing dreams and visions."

Gregory zipped his trousers up again, and Bradley gave a sigh of relief. Gregory shot him an amused look. He gestured for Bradley to sit down.

"Please, have a drink. I offered you one before because you were so nervous. It's not easy, being a telepath, especially not here. The redheaded boy, he's one too. I'm trying to train him, but he hates it here. He and I established something of a rapport at my home in the Sahara, but he seems to utterly regress when I'm not with him now."

Bradley took a polite sip of the sour wine Gregory thrust lazily into his hand. "Really, I don't like punishing, but Herr Hertz has had such an eye on me recently. They all know I hate being here, and do anything to get out of it. Telepaths are so rare, I usually can. They don't want to risk me, you see, and I'm really Estet property, not Rosenkruez. Hertz is just sore because the Elders made him stay here. It's not often you find someone classed as 'too sadistic to be a field agent'." Gregory seemed quite at ease, gesturing with the wineglass and splashing wine across the bare floor. "Look at this place. You wouldn't guess I'm on one of the highest paying levels, would you? This place is so Spartan. Hertz, again. I don't like short people," he declared.

"Do you live in the Sahara?" Bradley pieced information together, remembering a comment the redheaded boy had made in the shower.

"Yes, yes I do! So wonderfully quiet out there. I have my own plane, you know. One of those ancient things, all canvas and wood. Don't know why…" Gregory stared into space, and Bradley realised the man was far drunker than a few glasses of wine. "Yeah," Gregory responded to the unspoken thought, "I drink a lot here. I'd rather be in Tokyo than Rosenkruez, when it comes to my talent." He slipped into another glazed smile. The hand holding the glass slipped lower and lower until it dangled over the arm of the chair. The lass slipped from wine slicked fingers to break on the floor. "Oh, are you still here?" Gregory roused himself. "You know, you do have the most remarkable mental shields for a person your age. You may go."

"Thank you, sir." This final formality left Gregory with a benevolent smile on his face, and a general impression of a very helpful, very loyal young man who was far too good for this first year nonsense. Bradley left with an impression of a job well done, and he gloated as he strode towards the dorm room.

Bradley knew they wouldn't act on the information. He wasn't sure why not, but his power reliably informed him he would be overlooked until the actual escape. He also knew that his vision had been absolutely correct, and the ambiguity of his ability frightened him a little. Gregory had demanded fellatio, and the vision had implied that Bradley would have to perform fellatio, but he'd gotten around it. This had happened before. He had usually known when a person was going to hit him, but he hadn't known he or she would hit him, and he usually managed to get out of the way. There was an important difference, and one Crawford didn't like. It gave him control over his future, but lessened his power, as others could alter it as well.

A week later, Hertz summoned him. The boy had escaped, and Bradley was going to be moved into the next year. His grovelling had paid off.


	6. Honesty is the Best Policy

Chapter Five – Honesty is the best policy 

I want Schu back too, but it's going to be a wait. I have two years to fill, and a bit more Brad torture. And I have such great plans for such wonderful shounen ai. Sigh. Oh, and Valentine's theme because I'm writing this a few days before the day singles dread… 

The first thing Bradley noticed about the second year was that they shared a lot of lessons with the third year. This made him particularly happy, as both he and Tanya had 'passive mental' talents, which left them together in several lessons. Uninterested in forming any kind of bonds with the other students, Bradley spent as much time as possible with the enigmatic Russian.

Bradley also began attending one-on-one lessons with Madame DuBois. As tedious as she was pitiful, Madame DuBois lectured on defining reality and slipstreams of time and some complicated physics that went straight over Bradley's head. And, of course, she hit on him. 

She flicked her hair and crossed and uncrossed her legs and pouted until Bradley thought her lips would fall off. Unlike most of the other Rosenkruez teachers, however, she didn't demand anything. Bradley put this down to the fact the lifelong anorexia had left her bones brittles as winter twigs, and even a sneeze would crack a rib, let alone a flailing punch of an unwilling paramour.

He put up with it. In amongst the swathes of meaningless babble, meaningless to both of them, that is, there was the occasional gem of wisdom, like a diamond in coalmine. She had, after all, been a seer much longer than Bradley, and even if the theory went straight over her head, the practice came naturally to her. She didn't know how to be a seer, but she was a seer, and Bradley learnt by example. 

He learnt to filter his visions, keeping them relevant and understandable. He learnt to distinguish between likely, definite, and ambiguous. He learnt to follow his instincts, not just his common sense, as the former were an extension of his gift, and the later was an extension of his ego.

The year past swiftly, the turnover of students keeping faces fresh and new, and the turnover of teachers reminding Crawford exactly why he wanted to get out of there. It wasn't long before he could recognise the strength of power in a fellow pupil, and the more importance strength of will. Those that failed died. 

Tanya had that strength of will. Every day she came up with a new way the system ought to be run, a new problem with the current order of things. And Bradley listened to these potential changes happily, sometimes evaluating them in his own mind, sometimes merely evaluating her.

It was nearing Valentines Day when Bradley worked up the courage to tell her of his blossoming feelings for her. He'd searched the ground, and eventually come across a small patch of snowdrops, which he carefully picked. He didn't care if they were the only symbol of hope in the ground, the last semblance of freedom in the prison; he wanted to give flowers to Tanya and there they were.

Clutching them in a sweating hand, but otherwise calm and collected, Bradley approached the common room allotted to third years. He knocked politely on the door, but there was no reply. He placed he handle on the slimy doorknob and froze.

~~~ gloves off pain hair white hands laughter screaming gloves on the floor pain screaming more screaming everyone screaming laughter gloves o the floor white hands blood on white face screaming blood gloves screaming screaming gloves blood screaming blood gloves… ~~~

Bradley jerked his hand back and stood there for a moment, gasping. It was a future that had nothing to do with him, and future very close to becoming the present, a definite future. His heart raced and he stared at the doorknob.

Inside the common room the first screams could be heard. Bradley listened to them for almost a minute, still dazed. A thin trickle of blood seeped under iron door, dark on the stone floor. He recovered himself and opened the door.

Inside the room it was chaos. Tanya was lying in the centre of the floor, like the eye of a storm, calm when all about her were going mad. Calm, unconscious, but still screaming. Blood was seeping from her nose, from her mouth, from her ears. Others in the room were wailing, panicking. One shoulder length white glove was lying beside her, and her snow-white hand was bare against the floor.

Making his way through the pandemonium Bradley approached the girl, still holding the flowers he'd brought for her. Gently he slipped them into her palm. The screaming grew a little less intense. He collected the glove and laid it beneath her skin, separating flesh for stone. Stone that held the tortured souls of centuries of Rosenkruez. No wonder she was screaming.

Bradley stared around the room. A boy was still laughing. A sallow faced, greasy, black haired boy. The boy who had had the bunk above his when he was still a first year. Crawford frowned at him. A fellow second year in the third year dormitory? Still, he'd kill the little punk.

Crawford raised his voice, "If you would all kindly shut the fuck up!" he bellowed. Silence echoed through the room. "Thank you." Bradley stared around. "You, fetch a member of staff. We need another passive mental, and you find a telekinetic. The less she comes in contact with the better. You two find a healer, to deal with the rest of this crowd. You three, start clearing this up. You lot, I want you to calm the 'active mentals', they're still in a state. And you," he glowered at his ex bunkmate, "are going to come and stand right here, with me."

The teenager sauntered over. "What d'ya want?" he drawled.

"Your life," Crawford said simply. He punched the younger man full in the face. He hoped the boy would fight back, give him a better excuse to kill him, but he knew the boy would flee. The boy spun around and Crawford grabbed the slick ponytail. The unwashed hair slipped from his grasp, though not before the boy gave a yelp of pain. He went to run through the door, but as he opened it he slammed into the chest of Herr Hertz.

Crawford grimaced. He'd forgotten that Hertz was a healer. The man still frightened him in ways he couldn't comprehend, but it didn't occur to him until much later in life that as a healer the man could manipulate his glands on a microscopic level. The boy whimpered as Hertz shoved him away and strode towards Crawford. Crawford refused to be cowed by the short man.

"This young man removed this clairvoyant's glove. She has suffered immensely, and though she appears somewhat stabilised now it foresee months of recovery for her," Crawford reported sharply. "She is one of our most powerful clairvoyants, and be damaging her he has damaged both Rosenkruez and Estet." The boy snarled at him, finally realising the depth of the trouble he was in. Unfortunately, Crawford wasn't clear of the water yet either.

"And you, a second year, in here?" Herr Hertz smirked as he waved in an assistant telekinetic to help remove the still moaning Tanya.

Crawford weighed his options. Lie, and risk discovery, or tell the truth and risk punishment. To what extent would Hertz recognise his dishonesty? 

"I am a companion of Tanya. I was coming to request her company when I had a vision of this situation. I entered hurriedly, aware that it was unpreventable, and took control of the situation as no one else seemed able to."

"You intended to lie," Herr Hertz noted aloud. A smile tugged at his thin lips. "What made you change your mind?"

"You have control of my life," Crawford said candidly. "It seemed unwise to lie to someone who controls me to such an extent. You have a very powerful gift, I do not know the extent to which you can pick up on physical changes that occur when a person is dishonest. Also, I couldn't think of a good lie."

Hertz let out a peal of laughter. "You are a fool," he smirked. "You continue to tell the truth, knowing full well I'd recognise any lie, but in doing so you are condemning yourself." Crawford squared his shoulders and spread his feet a little further apart. A nervous sweat was forming between his shoulder blades. "You have not mentioned the glory of Estet or Rosenkruez ye-et," Hertz sang.

"I did!" Crawford bit his tongue sharply. Contradicting a superior? Not good. "I mean," he began to attempt to repair the damage, "while you were attending to Miss Tanya I pointed out how this young man's joke jeopardised her potential as a servant for Rosenkruez and Estet."

"Can you see the light, from the bottom of your hole?" Hertz taunted. "Come, Herr Crawford. You and I will have a little 'talk'."

It's short, but it's such a perfect place for a cliffhanger. Mwahaha… 


	7. Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones

Chapter Six – Sticks and stone may break my bones… 

Crawford believed in control. He believed he had absolute control over his own body. The dark fear that threatened to engulf him whole was, unfortunately, not a product of his own body in the normal sense. Hertz controlled the chemicals in his brain, forcing wave upon wave of panicky terror on the eighteen year old.

Crawford stood in front of the leather-inlaid desk. Hertz sat behind it, taking a quill pen from and inkpot and sucking on the end.

"They call me a sadist," he told Crawford, "and they don't lie." He waved at the desk. Bradley's stomach turned. Human leather, blood ink, bone pen, skull lamp… "I have killed more people than you've met," Hertz sneered. "These are disloyal students. How does this make you feel?"

"If anyone knows, it's you," Crawford told him stolidly. "You are so powerful my nervousness must be nigh on overwhelming."

"Flattery will get you everywhere." Hertz waved a hand. "Absolutely everywhere," he chuckled.

Crawford rested on the balls of his feet, hands tucked into the small of his back. He could probably kill this man with ease if it came to it, but he would forfeit his own life. If he played it right, he shouldn't receive a worse beating than the ones his father used to deliver.

Hertz leant backwards and plucked a stick from a dark corner. Femur, Crawford's anatomy knowledge kicked in, polished to a yellow shine. Set in the top was a glass bulb containing a single eye. Next to it was a whip made from strips of human flesh. Attached to the end of each strip in a thong was a heavy stone. A Cat 'o nine tails with stones rather than notes and flesh rather than rope. Hertz plucked this from the corner as well and offered the two to Crawford.

"Pick one," Hertz watched Crawford. "I have a whimsical side, so you get to pick what you're beaten with. Stick or stones?"

Crawford considered. The stick would break bones and bruise terribly, but the whips were more likely to draw blood and leave welts across his back. Either way, he wouldn't sleep on his back for a long time.

~~~ golf club pain hitting pain golf club revenge pain back shoulders face golf club… ~~~

The vision faded out. Bradley frowned. That was a long way off. Orange hair fluttered around the edges of his vision. Surely not… Well, it was a long way off.

"How many hits?" Crawford asked as politely as he could.

"You are weighing this up carefully, aren't you? Let me put you out of your misery. I'm going to beat you with both."

"I am to pick which comes first?" Hertz nodded lazily, fondling the bone stick. "Stick, please." Bradley swallowed, his heart in his throat. His father had beaten him with his stick more than once, and taken off his belt to him several times, but this was likely to exceed any 'second place' beating.

"Take off your shirt and trousers." Bradley complied. "Lie face down on the desk." Bradley pressed his face to the skins of his fellow pupils, focusing on the blood ingrained in the leather. He lay there for several minutes, getting cold.

Crack!

Bradley screamed against his will. The stick had hit the small of his back. It came down again, slamming into his pelvis. Then his neck. His shoulder blades, one after the other. Small of his back again. 

Each time, Bradley screamed. His fingers dug crescents in the tender leather of the desk, his feet beat the wall. The stick came down on the back of his legs and he heard a bone break. He whimpered into the desk.

"Silence!" Hertz roared.

Bradley bit the desk. The taste made him gag, and the mere thought of what he was doing would make him sick for many nights to come. He chewed on the leather as the stick slammed into his pelvis again. Tears soaked the desk as he clung to the sides of wood and trembled.

He was ten again. He'd come second in the 500m against the sixth graders. He'd been so proud; until his father pointed out he hadn't come first. They'd left immediately, and in the back of the chauffer driven Mercedes Bradley Crawford Senior had beaten him for losing. Then he'd beaten his for protesting. And then he'd beaten him for soaking the white leather in blood. Bradley Junior had ended up in hospital. They blamed it on the chauffer, and had the innocent man deported.

"Roll over." Bradley raised tear-filled golden brown eyes to stare at his nemesis. "Roll over," Hertz repeated, patience wearing thin.

Carefully, slowly, tenderly, Bradley forced is aching body onto it's back, noticing that his right leg was definitely broken and his back would never be the same again. Hertz picked up the whip.

As the stones slammed into his abdomen and below, Bradley passed out without a sound.

Even shorter chapter. I just really didn't want to write any more Brad torture. Well, not physical, anyway. Next we get the psychological damage…


	8. But Words Will Never Hurt Me

Chapter Seven - …But words will never hurt me 

Whizzing through the year here, impatient to bring Schu back. Really zooming… It's just occurred to me that Crawford probably does have a set birthday, but I started this already, I'm going to pretend it's in late October. Oh, and this is now officially a prequel to NRNR. If you've read NRNR, you might recognise an OC who appears very briefly in this chapter (hopefully this is her only appearance in this story). If you haven't, you might as well wait until I'm done with this one, unless you're desperate to know more about Tanya and the mystery girl. 

Bradley stared at the ceiling. It was white. Like the pain that still flooded his system. It turned out Rosenkreuz students were above painkillers. Bradley would have gone through the entire beating again just to have a single aspirin.

He couldn't move. Every part of him hurt. The sheets were soaked in his blood, even now, a month after the beating. They said another two months in the sanatorium, then back into the main building, but he'd have to take it slow at first. As far as Bradley could see, he'd have to take it stationary!

But the months past and the wounds healed. Bones knitted back together, flesh rebuilt itself, new pink skin covered scrapes and grazes. Slowly, Bradley returned to the picture o health he'd been before he'd dared speak up to Herr Hertz. The irony wasn't lost on either of them; being put in a hospital by a healer.

As he recovered, bored out of his mind, Bradley thought more and more of Tanya. He asked after her every day, but she remained in solitary confinement. Not even the healers could see her. Bradley could make an accurate guess as to where she was: the laboratories. Where the walls screamed and blood had been known to seep through the stone floor. It made any haunted house a mockery of fear. And the young clairvoyant was locked in a sterile white room in that environment. When the lights were out and the rest of Rosenkreuz asleep, Bradley wept for her.

He returned to lessons on the first day of May. Over the high stone wall the scent of summer blossom drifted from alpine trees and bushes, and spring had definitely sprung. This offered no comfort to Bradley. He wasn't behind, he'd been too far ahead to start with, but there was a whole new batch of students to contend with and most faces were either new or badly worn. His own was no exception.

Another month past. Summer had taken hold of the Austrian compound and it took hold of the students as individuals. Some saw it as a symbol of everything they'd lost, others as everything they hoped to regain. Bradley just saw it as half a year gone, and most of it without Tanya. Bradley pined for her.

As Autumn approached, Bradley fell back into the habit of sucking up. He had full control of his gift now, but continued to go to Madame DuBois's tutorials. He wondered if he would go insane if he had to keep this up next year as well, but he smiled and occasionally flirted, earning privileges he would not otherwise have had. He continued to help in the General Studies lessons, teaching basic reading, writing and maths. His patience became a virtue to live up to for other students. He curse it himself, wishing he could force himself to find Tanya and approach her, even at the risk of damaging her health and mental stability permanently. His sporting prowess and weapon skills were on the verge of becoming legendary, as he even beat a telekinetic at precision shooting.

One evening, it late August, Bradley was reclining on his bunk in he winter dormitory when the door clicked open. There were considerably fewer students in both years now, bringing the dorm's total occupancy down to a mere thirty. As a second year, he had more free time, and he generally elected to spend it inside while everyone else enjoyed the late sunshine. Usually he was alone, but the minute snick of the latch signalled the end of this peace.

"Hey," a voice drawled. 

"Is what horses eat," Bradley replied, bored already.

"Heh, so very droll," he voice snapped. "Now, I go' a bone to pick wi' you. Well, several, now." Bradley looked up. Standing in the centre of the room was Tanya's practical joker, as greasy as ever, with his arm in a sling. His thuggish appearance, coupled with the dark uniform, made him resemble a bouncer outside one of the more disreputable establishments.

"The knave of clubs, I presume," Crawford raised a sardonic eyebrow. The joke fell flat.

"I ain't stole no tarts," the other boy growled.

"And I am not the queen of hearts. What do you want? My patience is not as infinite as some would have you believe." Crawford swung his legs over the side of the bunk.

"I want my girlfriend back."

Bradley froze. Not… "Tanya?" he asked, as composed as ever. Outwardly, at least.

"Nah, 'ertz. Of course bloody Tanya, you prick! I was 'er favourite, and now you come in an' take the bitch from me, just when she was beginning to thaw out. Another week and I'd 'a' 'ad 'er!"

"When you say had, you mean in the sexual sense?" Crawford enquired coolly, walking towards the younger man.

"What do you fucking think?" He'd grown a bit, since Crawford had last seen him. They were about the same height, but Crawford still had the utmost confidence in his own physical superiority. The kid had a broken arm, for God's sake!

"I think not. I think she's the most powerful clairvoyant Estet has ever seen, and to violate her would be to commit suicide. I think you're a jumped up little twat who saw more than was actually there. I think your life is going to extend all of five minutes if you don't get the fuck out of my sight right now."

"You think you're so fucking tough," the boy sneered. "Look at this. Personal note from the ice queen herself. She _wan'ed_ me."

With trepidation, Bradley took the yellowing paper from the boy's slimy hand. In what was definitely Tanya's handwriting, it read: 'You are what I want, you are what I need. Be flattered.' Bradley calmly folded it up again and placed it back into the outstretched hand. The younger boy smirked.

"What is your gift?" Crawford enquired.

"Huh?" The boy stared at him. "That all you got to say? No wi'y comeback? No rep-art-tay?"

"Telempath, I presume? Passive, of course." Crawford walked slowly around him, forcing the boy to turn to keep an eye on him.

"An' wha' of it?"

"You are powerful, yes? You could feel her desire?"

"I'm the most fucking powerful telempath in the whole fucking place! She wan'ed me! You saw wha' it said in the no'. She need me! I fel' it. She wan'ed to have me as her own!"

"I see." Confidence began to creep back into Crawford's tone, the smug self-confidence of a man who knows he's already won, and is just waiting to see how long it will be before his opponent realises. "So, she wanted you. You're a very 'powerful' person. She wanted to own you. Tell me, how long were the two of you well acquainted?"

"Coupla months. It don' take long for a chick to realise she wan's a bi' of this," the boy leered, lifting his shirt to display a dark nipple and squeezing it with dirty nails. Crawford's eyes raked disapprovingly up and down the lanky, greasy figure.

"I see." Inwardly, he was laughing, but outwardly he remained as calm as ever. "So, you didn't know her all that well, as a person. She didn't tell you of her plans." No questions, not any more. They weren't needed. The facts fell into place like dominoes. Or, as a more sinister part of Crawford's mind supplied, like corpses into graves. "She never told you of how she plans to make changes to this place, how she plans to take control once Hertz has passed away and who she needs to help her. She saw you had power, no doubt you boasted of it, and she saw how it could be used. She is not a woman given over to carnal lusts, boy, and the mere supposition that you could inspire such sensations in even an earthworm is beyond belief. You have power, and she wanted it. That is all."

"An; you? You ain't a telempath. Wha' power you go' that's so vi'al to 'er?" Crawford had to hand it to him, he held his fear well. If the places had been reverse Crawford would have been looking for a way out of the situation. On the other hand, perhaps the boy was just too stupid to read the signs.

"I have the ability to know when and how she's going to succeed," Crawford said calmly. "I have better people skills than you'll ever have, and I can read body language better than you can read emotions. I am intelligent, practical, methodical and foresighted. You, boy, are a prat."

Silence reigned.

"You bastard!" the boy shrieked, and the arm in the sling suddenly unwound itself to shove the end of a gun into the centre of Crawford's forehead. Crawford, already prepared for this eventuality, slammed his fist into the boy's shoulder, knocking him off balance and weakening his grasp on the weapon. Grabbing the young man's wrist and elbow the bone gave with a satisfying crack, and the gun clattered on the stone floor.

There was a brief respite, Crawford still holding the broken arm and his assailant pale and panting. Both pairs of eyes turned towards the dull metal of the gun barrel. Neither noticed a gentle 'snick' as the door opened once more.

The young man was about to go for it, even at the expense of his arm, so Crawford made the first move and dove towards the firearm. A dry palm curved around the smooth grip and his finger found the trigger almost automatically. The first shoot went right into the heart.

The boy gasped as life left him. Crawford watched with professional detachment as the body twitched and sank to the cool floor. As it collapsed, another figure became visible. She was small, on the cusp of adolescence, with a faint smile. Her eyes burned.

Her hair was brown, her eyes brown, her skin a pale cream. She hands were tucked neatly behind her, and her long dress made her look like a relic from days long gone. She regarded Crawford with detachment, licking her lips like a child who's just finished eating the sweets the strange man who wanted her to get into his car gave her.

"Shh," she murmured, the playful smile akin to that of a certain eight-foot reptile left over from the days of the dinosaurs. Crawford expected any tears she shed to be equally fake. "You must cheer up a little," she told him. "I hate that everyone here is so sad all of the time. One day, I'm going to do something about it."

This time, it wasn't a 'snick' or a 'click' but a 'bang' as the door flew back on its hinges. The three adults Crawford had first met at the airport in Japan strode in. Madame Dubois looked harried, and Crawford guessed she was the reason Gregory had been dragged from his home in the Sahara at short notice, which was why he looked furious. Herr Hertz's smile sent shivers down his spine, and old injuries twinged in sympathy for the beating that was likely to come.

"Fille!" Madame DuBois snapped. "'ow did you come to be out 'ere?"

"They left the door open," the girl said. There was a moment's silence. "After they all died," she finished.

"Herr May?" Hertz gestured to the Crawford and the girl. "I suppose you can do it?" Lackeys started to hustle the child out of the room.

"Yes, but not at once. Not to him. Really, you have no idea how strong his shields are. You don't want to risk _him,_ do you?"

"Nein, nein, I suppose not. Still, I know how to break him." Hertz's grin widened. "There are places where we can send him, ja?"

"Non!" Madame DuBois snapped. "'e is too precious. Remember what The Ancients said. We need 'im intact!" There was silence.

"I suppose… I think I could remove her from his memory," Gregory offered. "He'd just remember us arriving, and, of course, this conversation. She's an image, nothing more. Faces can be difficult to remember accurately anyway, so it could just be a case of a slight nudge."

"I see. Ja, do that."

Crawford stared at them in bafflement. He'd just shot a fellow student, a student who was an equal, not an inferior, and they were talking about removing something from his memory. Someone, a female someone. The only woman present was Madame Dubois, but she didn't seem to be the person they were talking about. Mr May was leaning against one of the walls, suddenly overcome by fatigue. Bradley wished he could put this down to jetlag, but he doubted it was so.

*She spoke to him, * Gregory warned the others. *That's not going to go away. *

*A beating will make him forget, * Herr Hertz said confidently.

*The Ancients were not impressed with you last time, * Madame DuBois reminded the short German. *We need him on active duty once he leaves here, and crippled are not very active, non? * 

*A few scars, that is all, * Hertz reassured them. *He killed an equal. *

*We don't want to make him think that killing is bad. He'll need to be able to when he leaves. * Madame DuBois expressed futher doubts.

*Anger is the wrong motivation! If he had killed for the glory of Estet- *

*Carlos wasn't exactly a model student. He had no love for the establishment, * Gregory inserted.

*Ach, you are both overcome by his looks and your fear of our superiors. A little time in solitary, at least? *

*Yes, because madness is what we really want to inspire. We need him whole, body _and_ mind. * Gregory glowered at the diminutive controlled of Rosenkreuz.

"Fine," Hertz grumbled aloud. "Herr Crawford, you have done well to kill this traitor. Herr May has told us of his heresy against Rosenkreuz, and Frau DuBois foresaw the struggle. You should have brought him before us, so we let you off once and once only." He strode out of the room, followed by Madame DuBois.

"You know I did it for no such reason," Crawford moved to lean on the wall next to Gregory. Servants began to scuttle in a start to clear up.

"Yes, but he really wasn't particularly enamoured with our bosses. Next time, don't let your instincts get such control over you," Gregory warned. "Beat him to a pulp, yes, but leave him alive for us to kill."

Crawford grimaced. "Thank you for that piece of advice. You know, it was him who had the gun."

"Keep it, it may come in handy." Gregory smirked, and slid and overly friendly arm around Crawford's waist. "Fighting over a girl, aye? I've seen her. She's still unstable, but you might be able to get a message to her."

"Tell her I love her," Bradley said softly. He rested his head on Gregory's shoulder. "Tell her I'm waiting for her. Tell her I'll wait forever, if that's what it takes."

"Heh," Gregory snorted. He slipped his hand inside Bradley's shirt. After almost a year, Bradley was getting used to this sort of teacher-student interaction, but it still creeped him out a bit. Still, he owed Gregory his life, so a minor grope would go unremarked. Gregory let his tongue trace the inside of Bradley's ear. "If it bothers you, tell me to stop."

"Would you?" Bradley asked rhetorically. Gregory shook his head.

"You warned me my favourite was about to run, and you were right and I was wrong. I've been a bit lonely…" Gregory pressed Bradley against the wall, and Bradley could feel the heat of Gregory's erection through the worn trousers.

"If you need me intact, I wouldn't say this is the way to go about it," Bradley warned. Gregory sighed.

"I guess not. Hey, don't worry about the shooting okay? Killing a person can confuse you a little, so you may recall things that couldn't possibly have happened, and you can forget the conversation altogether." He moved away from Bradley, wandering out of the room.

"Or not, as the case may be," Bradley murmured.

* * *

Bradley received no return messages from Tanya, and he began to doubt that Gregory had ever delivered his. It stung, slightly, especially the idea that Gregory had delivered the messages, but Tanya hadn't replied anyway.

September departed and October slipped by. As it neared the first of November Bradley realised he was about to enter the third year. He wondered if Tanya would graduate or stay down. He hoped fervently that she was kept down, so he could have the pleasure of her company another year. Then they could be together when they left. She was going to work for Estet, in their Berlin headquarters. 

Bradley woke up on the first of November, stomach clenched in anticipation. When he slept tonight, it would be in one of the third year dormitories. Only three other occupants, and real mattresses. He'd missed real mattresses.

He'd also missed Tanya. Taking a walk that was now routine for him, he headed to the laboratory complex. She'd been moved there for rehabilitation after she'd been able to stand human company again. Perhaps today they'd let him see her. Perhaps today there'd be a message.

He was a familiar face by now to the technicians and grunts that paced the harsh white corridor. _THX-1138_, Bradley thought, _and door 1138 to match_. For some reason he'd always preferred George Lucas's early success of his vision of dystopia to the epic Star Wars trilogy, in all it's 'evil is bad and good is better' glory. The Crawford part of him admired the harsh amoral, asexual regime. The Bradley part hated that part of himself.

He raped on 1138 and for the first time the door actually opened. Usually, there would be a brief conversation through the door, harsh but almost sympathetic words always to the effect of 'no visitors'. There was no premonition of doom as the door swung silently on plastic hinges, but what Bradley was within almost destroyed him.

The room was empty. There were signs of recent habitation, but it was clear that its occupant had left. For good. On the bed was a single sheet of white paper. With trembling hands Bradley picked it up, and read with trepidation.

Bradley (he read),

Thank you for your sentiment expressed through Mr May. Forever can be a long time, especially when what you want is forbidden by the fates. Still, it's nice to hear a friendly voice, so here is a number at which I can be reached: 434 578 666. I hope you feel honour bound to contact me, if you manage to find a telephone within the walls of Rosenkreuz.

Tanya.

Bradley sat down on the bed. No returned 'sentiment', then. And what did she mean, 'forbidden by fate'? He didn't cry, he wasn't a tearful person, but the cold message left a gash in his heart that would be many years without healing. The phone number was an empty courtesy, as she knew as well as he did he'd never be allowed access to any form of communication with the outside world as long as he was in this hellhole. Her words did not _hurt_, they mortally wounded.

And what was this about 'honour bound'? Surely she didn't expect him to bend to her every whim, especially when she made it clear she didn't share his _feelings_? He ground his teeth. There was no_ honour _among thieves, as the saying went, and there'd be less among killers. He was not an inferior to do her every bidding. Why should he call? Why should he even make the attempt? What right did _she_ have to _assume_ these things? She stood up sharply. No, he would not call. He would not make the effort to do something for someone who clearly felt he was less than worthy of her attentions. He strode out of the small room and towards the main 'school', determined never to think of her again.

But still, he folded up the note carefully and put it in his breast pocket.

That was a bit longer than anticipated, and I didn't even cover all that I wanted to. Still, there's always the next chapter (a phrase I'll regret by the time we hit triple figures, no doubt). 


	9. The Beginning of The End

Chapter Eight – The Beginning of the End 

There was no pomp and ceremony for the surviving second year students. They were allocated new rooms and handed new timetables, and that was it. Another year over. Having missed out on the shift between first and second, this caught Bradley wrong-footed, and he spent most of the day waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, he resigned himself to the fact that he and his fellow students were of no importance here, other than as potential resources. _A resource without remorse_, Bradley joked with himself, as each day the idea of killing became more and more acceptable, each wound to be inflicted a mundane fact of life, each instance of torture to perform perfectly normal. Bradley's hatred of the process was as powerful as he was powerless able to prevent it happening.

There was more emphasis on physical prowess this year, and Crawford's skills as a marksman began to earn him attention from staff outside of his normal circle. He continued to work as an aide in the general studies class, teaching younger students to read and write and do the basic maths they'd need to survive in he outside world, assuming they survived Rosenkreuz first. Part of him was aware he was looking for someone, waiting for someone important. His qualms about hurting reticent students weakened considerably, and his request for a cane was well received. His figure commanded respect throughout the school, as Tanya's had.

That was something to live up to: Tanya's legacy. Things were getting clearer to Crawford. She'd needed a replacement, and had trained him to control the students and staff until she got back. And she would come back, one day, to take Rosenkreuz and lead it as she saw fit. Everyone had known her; almost everyone had respected her and her _power_. Crawford's skills were no mere rumour either; many students had seen firsthand what his precognitive abilities could do in pre-empting an attack on an inferior. Even Hertz began to show a grudging respect for the American, as he produced dissident after dissident. Rosenkreuz was safe for Estet while Crawford prowled the stark corridors.

He didn't form any bonds, as Tanya had. He knew he'd be staying on for a while, and didn't need a replacement. He was looking for something, and Rosenkreuz would offer it to him on a silver platter, he felt certain.

Despite this, he got to know his fellow roommates by name, but further interaction was discouraged. In some instances it was unavoidable, and he was faintly amused as the other three took out their sexual frustrations on each other due to lack of female company. Once or twice, he was invited to join in, but he decline graciously and eventually managed to get hold of some earplugs.

One night, when the groaning and panting had clamed to the slow breathing of sleep, Bradley found himself wondering what it might be like. Two of the boys, Jon and Mikhail, were clearly growing attached to each other, and Muhammad, the third, was increasingly left out of their nocturnal games. He'd entreated Bradley again tonight to join him, and as a telempath he'd recognised that Bradley's resistance was wavering.

It wasn't that Bradley was particularly in need of sex. Since Tanya's departure he'd found nothing to interest him in that area. He had known that his libido was considerably less than most boys for years now, and it didn't bother him. Still, he did occasionally feel, well… left out. He couldn't decide whether he wanted the attachment such an activity would inevitably forge between him and his partner, or whether it was weakness to be avoided. Tanya had clearly viewed it as a weakness.

He heard a faint grunt as Mik rolled over, and Jon began to snore. There was warmth in that bed below him, compassion and companionship. Things Bradley had never really known. He lanced across to the other top bunk, and saw a pair of eyes glinting in the darkness. They had a window, now they were third years. At first Bradley had taken it as a measure of trust, until he realised all third year rooms were on the fourth story. It was just meant to look like a measure of trust.

"Crawford?" the other boy murmured.

"Hn?" Bradley wished he could just fall asleep. These musing weren't doing him any good, and they had a five-mile run and 5AM.

"Any chance of reconsidering?" Muhammad reached across the narrow space between the beds to brush Bradley's face.

"No," Bradley sighed. "I'm not inclined that way," he admitted.

"Liar," Muhammad growled. Bradley stared at him, but the boy clearly wanted nothing more to do with the American. _But,_ Bradley inner voice stuttered in objection, _he's a telempath. He must know you're not lying. What is he gaining by acting like this? He must know, right? _

_What if he's righ-_ Bradley slammed the doors shut on that thought. Of course he wasn't lying. Ridiculous. So what if he'd entertained the odd thought of 'fooling around' with the others? He'd found Tanya incredibly attractive, and she was most definitely female. It was just a phase, born of loneliness, these occasional urges.

Just a phase.

Probably.

* * *

Crawford worked hard throughout the third year, despite the cruelty now even less disguised. Of the four member of his room, he was the only one to survive the year. Jon was shot for heresy, and Mik shot himself. Crawford felt faintly smug, believing that by turning down the other boys' offers of sex he'd avoided the kind of entanglements that could lead to that sort of behaviour. Their useless affection had made them weak. Muhammad was less fortunate, despite his enforced solitude, as through his telempathy he suffered Mik's suicide and ended up being taken to the Laboratories.

In the weeks running up to the end of the final year, the students were closely questioned as to their plans for the future. Any which didn't mesh with Estet's plans for their future were rapidly discarded, but even the hellish organisation recognised that a happy employee was a peaceful employee. So those that wanted field work usually got field work, and those that wanted to train students stayed at Rosenkreuz, and those that wanted to be swallowed whole by the system disappeared into office buildings, and those with plans like Crawford's kept them hidden. Yes, he wanted to command a field team, but he didn't want to be trapped in Berlin under the watchful eye of Estet's bureaucracy. He told them he wanted to continue training at Rosenkruez, a risky decision, considering it could mean he never got to leave, but he cautiously expressed a desire to learn the techniques employed by field _leaders_. He wanted independence, but he was willing to put up with several more years of imprisonment to get it on his won terms.

The last day loomed, and Bradley was not alone in his apprehension. The general rumour was that there was some kind of test to pass before they could leave, and those that failed were sent to the Laboratories. Crawford found it ironic that Estet had been established for millennia, but still couldn't work out what caused the psychic powers on which it's whole philosophy was based. They were in terror of the day when there were no more psychics to ensnare, and their limited resources ceased to be expendable drones.

Bradley woke on the final first of November, alone in a room designed for four. The curtainless window faced west, but the grey tint of the sky told him it was about 8 AM.  He climbed out of his bunk and faced it, naked, and watched the stars fade. From this high up he could see over the wall and into the Austrian Alps. The grandeur of the lofty peaks represented to him everything he wanted to obtain, the immovable power of the eternal. They also represented everything that was currently out of reach. The mountains in which Victor Frankenstein was born glowed in the dawn light, but the mere thought of the tale depressed Crawford. At least eh creature had been free, even if it was only to suffer.

He dressed, never taking his eyes from the window, and cleared his things into a small grey bag he'd been provided with the night before. He still owned only what Rosenkreuz had given him: a grey uniform and his glasses. He wondered if his original possession would be returned to him. He doubted it.

As instructed, he made his way to the main hall. One of the first to arrive, he leant nonchalantly against a wall outside. A dream last night had provided him with a clue as to the nature of the 'test'. First, an essay about the glory of Estet, something that would destroy many of the less literate students. Then, a staged attack, in which those that put their own lives above the glory of Rosenkreuz would not survive. Many of those that didn't would probably die as well, as their talents dictated. Finally, a psychic scan, to determine those who were loyal from those who weren't. Bradley hoped it would be Gregory administering it, but doubted it. The Englishman rarely left his desert home, and as this event occur four times a year, the chance of him being required were slim.

He was almost surprised by Madame DuBois, whose arrival he picked up on mere moments before it happened. She seemed startled to find him there so early, and fought not to show it. Being a person of very little body language himself, Crawford generally found the gestures of others extremely telling, and Madame DuBois was a very extravagant person when it came to gesticulation.

"Bradley," she smiled falsely. "Are you looking forwards to ze last day?"

"Oui," he said pleasantly. "It promises to be interesting."

"You are thinking of staying on, oui?"

"Yes. I want to train harder and in other areas before I further Estet's glorious accomplishment's in the field." The incessant flattery and sycophantic worship wore Crawford's nerves to the bone, but he smiled and praised his bosses obsequiously whenever he could. Tanya's advice had saved his life and his sanity more times than he could count, now.

"Bien, bien," Madame DuBois murmured vaguely, her eyes unfocused. "Monsieur Crawford, I advise you to be most careful in the final part," she said enigmatically, and wandered away. Her behaviour didn't surprise Crawford, but he found it a little despicable. _He_ never allowed himself to become so distracted by a vision or premonition. And he certainly wouldn't be so vague. If she was going to offer advice, why couldn't it be constructive? Something along the lines of 'don't hate Rosenkruez when they scan you' would have been more useful.

Bradley fought the bitterness back. He was scared. He hadn't appreciated the warning because it had only served to heighten his nervousness. And he new perfectly well how hard it could be to wrench yourself back from the mental precipice the visions could leave you on. A sort of psychic vertigo that claimed many passive mentals, losing themselves in their gift and withdrawing completely from reality. And he also knew how vague the premonitions could be. It wasn't her fault if she could only give a vague waning. Still, resentment built up inside of him. He resented her, he resented Rosenkruez, he resented Estet, but right now, most of all, he resented his father.

His father. Yes, that was where it had all started. Stupid petty little man too wrapped up in profit and loss to realise his son was a human being. To realise his son needed to be loved and appreciated and cared for. Bradley glowered at the wall as scenes played across the inside of his skull. Yes, that man had deserved what was coming to him. He'd been willing to bet that whatever faulty gene had blessed him with this foresight had come from the bastard. He'd never have sunk this far if it hadn't been for his father. He'd never even have come to Rosenkreuz if the man had been better at what nature required of him. He wouldn't be a killer, he wouldn't be an emotionally sterile murderer. He'd have just been Bradley Crawford Junior, some nice kid who liked boxing and would be at a good university probably doing law or something to do with the stock market.

Images flickered through his subconscious, unconsciously screened by Bradley as the product of his gift. The shifting future swirling in a maelstrom of uncertainty, most of it irrelevant to him. Suddenly, his subconscious threw up a selection of images. That redheaded boy again, in an alley with a needle. A much smaller, Japanese boy, also in an alley, crying pitifully. Another redhead stepping out of a tube train on the London Underground, uncertainty masking scarred features. Bradley Crawford Senior had been a terrible father, but Bradley Crawford Junior could be a better one to these lost souls. He would guide them, lead them. He would mould and control them. They would be _his_.

"An admirable sentiment," a slimy voice murmured. Crawford didn't even turn around. "Pity it's wrong. They will be Estet's, and you, no doubt, will be dead by the end of today."

"You must be the man who performs the final test," Crawford commented nonchalantly.

"Quite. I'd tell your seniors know of your heresy, but I want to see how far you get in the other tests. You strike me as a good liar; I want to read your essay, once I have your head stuffed and mounted on my wall."

Crawford turned slightly and raised an eyebrow. "An interesting sentiment," he purred. "Some might question your loyalty to Estet, if you are so willing to sacrifice one of their most powerful precognitives to decorate your mantelshelf. Some might say you are wasting valuable resources. Some might even say your time here is up." The short man stared up at Crawford's shining glasses.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he demanded, trying to force his way past Crawford's shields.

"I had a vision," Crawford told him candidly, letting his mind show he was telling the truth. "You won't last the day."

"You'll go down with me," the little man threatened.

"Oh, I doubt that," another voice joined them.

"Herr Hertz," Crawford bowed at the waist. "Such an honour to be graced with your presence. Are you here to oversee the loyal as the ascend into the glorious service of Estet?"

"Ja," the man muttered in reply. "Herr Vladimir, I was hoping it would not be you again," he addressed the Czechoslovakian telepath with barely disguised loathing. A/N: I can't remember if it was still Czechoslovakia or the Czech Republic at this point (about 12 years ago now, late eighties early nineties), but think Central Europe in General, really. 

"The feelings more than mutual, you little Nazi." Vladimir actually spat on Hertz, whose brows twisted in contempt.

Wiping the saliva from his cheek, Hertz drew himself up to his full height of 5ft4. "I am your superior in every possible way," he snarled. "You have treated me with disrespect. You know the punishment for that," he began to smile. Vladimir's eyes widened. "You are lucky you are such a rare commodity, or I would kill you now. You will conduct the scans as usual, and I will speak to the council to decide what to do with you. Herr Crawford is quite right, your loyalty is rapidly becoming suspect, worm." With that, the ex-nazi strode away down the corridor.

"He has a stick made from a human bone, and a cat o' nine tails made from strips of human flesh," Crawford said conversationally. "I was beaten with both, and spent months in the ward. I didn't pass out until he started whipping my front."

The Czech gave a whimper, and fled.


	10. Let The Games Begin

Chapter Nine – Let the Games Begin 

Brad's essay, written in his own blood (a stipulation he hadn't foreseen) read as follows:

The Psychics trained at Rosenkruez are Superior to Normal Humans in Every Way. Discuss.

Genetically, it can be said that those blessed with psychic talents are further evolved than those without. All of the talents, in moderation, are clearly designed to further increase chance of survival. As the world become more over populated and competition grows fiercer, it is these talents that enable psychics to come out on top in any fight. The mental talents also enable psychics to win intellectual battles by knowing more than their opponents, thus making us more prepared. 

However, many talents take a physical and psychological toll. Physical talents can sap a body of strength and cause extreme exhaustion, while mental talents can cause headaches and brain tumours in extreme cases. Those talents dealing with foresight or hindsight also often result in loss of visible sight, or the intense weakening thereof. Psychological damage can range from brief disorientation to extreme insanity, depending on the strength of the gift and trigger that caused the damage.

While these problems may make some psychics seem inferior physically or psychologically to the average human being, a Rosenkreuz trained psychic should be aware of how to handle these deficiencies as they arise. With the strict regime and capable trainers, students at Rosenkreuz learn to overcome physical handicaps induced by their talents, and the environment is conducive to preventing the psychological damage. A formidable disciplinary system and 'survival of the fittest' mentality creates strong minded, loyal disciples of the parent organisation, Estet, who can cope with any eventuality and strive to further the glorious accomplishments of both Estet and Rosenkreuz.

Overall, psychics can be seen as superior in some areas, whilst inferior in others, to the average human being. However, Rosenkreuz trained Psychics are clearly superior, and will take their rightful places at the top of the world order.

He passed with flying colours, as far as he could tell. It was short but well rounded, and wasn't so obsequious as to be an obvious betrayal of his anti-Rosenkreuz sentiments. He also passed out, from the blood loss.

* * *

They brought him round before the battle. He was flattered to find out they'd even considered him worthy of a blood transfusion, once they'd read his essay. It did leave him a little concerned about the standards of the other students' essay.

He was told, upon waking, that a group of students from his year were trying to break out of Rosenkreuz and had begun attacking other students. They would lie and try to fool him, but he had to fight then regardless of what they said or did, for the glory of Rosenkreuz. Crawford bit back a smile. Of course, the students had to think it was real. And Rosenkreuz wouldn't waste staff or fully trained personnel on students.

Bradley was pointed in the direction of the Laboratories and he set off, finally able to allow himself to smile. Instead of heading straight to the Labs he headed towards the physical education section of the 'school'. He studied the racks of guns and projectile weapons, including a ground to air missile launcher. He settled on smoke grenades and the pistol he'd shot the other boy with, fully loaded. 

He made his way to the Labs, not too slow, not too fast. Not too keen, don't too indifferent. He cradled the grip of the gin in the palm of his hand, revelling in the way it stole heat from hand and the way it reflected the dull grey walls in it's dull grey barrel. It was power.

The first student he met wrapped his hands around Crawford's throat immediately, and Crawford had no qualms about taking him out. The second student was a young woman, crouched against a wall. Unarmed, slender, a passive mental… she had no means of defence.

"For or against Rosenkreuz?" Crawford asked perfunctorily, knowing full well what the answer would be.

"For," she said without hope. "But those against would give the same answer," she sighed.

"I know, but I can foresee that you will be trustworthy," he said in a monotone. She stared at him. "What are you?" he asked.

"Telempath."

"Perfect. Can you sense others?" She nodded. "If I were to ask them what I asked you, would you be able to spot a liar?" She nodded again. "Good. Take these." She handed her the smoke grenades. She stared at them. "Smoke grenades," he explained. "We'll want to have someone to question to see if this conspiracy runs deeper."

The girl stared at him. She moved closer and murmured in his ear, "there's no attack, is there?" He shook his head minutely. "Thought so." She stepped back and stared at him. He returned the scrutiny, and realised with a sinking heart that she couldn't be more than fourteen. And she was a telempath, so killing would be very difficult for her. It would make this so much harder.

They met another pair further into the complex, twins, back to back. They'd got hold of a pair of Uzis, somehow, but had long since run out of ammo. Telempaths again, though the bond they shared between them was telepathic. Crawford cursed his luck, but made both of them carry a smoke grenade and demanded to know where they had got the Uzis. They led him to a supply closet, mostly empty now. Crawford salvaged some batons and a box of ammo for his pistol.

They passed piles of bodies as they continued on, and Crawford suspect there was at least one telekinetic creating them. He foresaw a pyrokinetic's attack and shot the young man, already badly wounded. Yes, there was definitely a telekinetic involved, perhaps a group of them.

The girl warned him as they approached the telekinetic, and warned that the young man would never trust them. He had, however, joined up with another pyrokinetic, a boy named Bran. Bran was actually still in his first year, but had joined in with glee when the telekinetic told him what was happening. Bran might be swayed.

The girl revealed she was an active telempath, but a weak one. If Crawford could sway Bran, convince him there was no fight, then the telekinetic might join them as well. Desperate to recruit a physical, Crawford agreed to her poorly thought out plan. 

He sent the twins ahead, both unaware of what was going on. While the telekinetic killed them, Crawford snatched Bran and spoke to him in swift whispers. Easily convinced, the boy trotted back out and started to explain to the telekinetic what was actually going on. With the girl's persuasive influence, Crawford soon picked up two more allies to replace the twin's he'd sacrificed.

Crawford's immediate plan of action was to gather everyone he could find, until there were no more students, and convince them they'd wiped out the threat already. Failing that, he'd tell them all the truth, and risk suffering the consequences. The question was which would be seen as more blasphemous towards Rosenkreuz. Which would seem like putting himself in front of the institute?

The girl scanned for more fugitives. It dawned on Crawford he must have been out for quite a while, as about half the student population were already dead. She told him a group of healers were trying to get back into the main school.

"Quick!" he bellowed, for the benefit of the security camera. "They might be heretics. We must stop them before they can infiltrate the rest of Rosenkreuz and not only spread their heresy but damage out glorious institute." He paused for breath. "Yes," he told them loudly, "even at the expense of our lives must this plague be stopped." The effect was rather ruined by the girl's muffled giggle, but fortunately the hulking body of the telekinetic was between her and the camera, so their superiors might be convinced he was serious.

They made their way back towards the main building, moving to cut off the healers. Bran was so excited he left burnt footprints in the carpet, and Crawford resolved to send him back to lessons, or wherever he was supposed to be, as soon as they caught the healers and either killed them or joined them.

The healers were aiming for the physical education storeroom, as Crawford had earlier, and were easily cut off. None were armed, but one could work at long range, and the telekinetic doubled over in pain while Bran collapsed and the girl clutched her head. Crawford was not unaffected, but he ignored the pain.

"Cease this foolishness!" he called. "Are you friend or foe of Rosenkreuz?"

"Friend! And you?" One of them had presence of mind to call back.

"He's telling the truth," the girl muttered, in a brief respite from the healer's torture.

"We too are friends of Rosenkreuz. You must join us. Students are killing students randomly, without any way of knowing who is the enemy. The girl-"

"-Romani-"

"is a telempath," Crawford nodded his thank for her filling in her name, "and she can recognise liars from those who tell the truth."

The pain eased. The healers stared at them, suspicious and confused. "Suppose," on began, "suppose you're telling the truth. What then? It's a war zone back there. Why can't we stay here and be safe?"

Crawford ground his teeth. "You put your own lives before that of Rosenkreuz?" he asked softly, the menace in his tone plain even to the single-digit IQ telekinetic. There was a shuffling of feet and a general murmur of denial. "Good," Crawford purred. "So you will join us?"

Once Bran had been dispatched to lessons, against his will, they made their way back to the Laboratories. By the end of the afternoon, Crawford had rounded up 90% of the remaining students, and the rumour that there was no attack was in full swing. Not one of the students would dare suggest such a thing to their superiors, but to many it made sense. They'd killed friends and even family today, but no one would complain. That would be killing themselves.

* It is over. * A telepathic voice boomed in their skulls. *The rebellion has been quashed. Please proceed to the main hall in an orderly fashion. * The Czech telepaths voice was bitter and resentful, and Bradley remembered that he was only being kept alive long enough to perform this final test.

* * *

As Bradley sat on the achingly cold stone floor of the main hall, all of his earlier fears threatened to cave in on him. Most of the students had no idea what was going on, but they seemed a little more relaxed now the 'threat' was dealt with. There weren't many left. It was some screening process, this last day.

His insecurities threatened to overwhelm him as he waited to enter the tiny office where the telepath waited. Of course he wasn't completely loyal to Estet. His first loyalties lay with himself and himself only. Everything he'd done today would no doubt be considered 'blasphemous', despite it's outwards appearances. There were no secrets here.

But still, he had a lot to be grateful for. He could be in prison by now, or still on the run. His gift could have sent him mad, or blind. He did have some power, even if it was currently limited. He inspired fear in his inferiors, fear and respect. Even if he never left, he'd still have some of what he'd wished for. So maybe he did appreciate Rosenkreuz.

The door opened, and Bradley caught his breath. Hertz stepped out, and beckoned for some grunts to carry away the still warm body of Vladimir. Bradley's stomach flipped. They hadn't called a single student into the office, yet Hertz had killed Vladimir because his duty was complete. He'd scanned the whole hall while people were still off guard, including himself.

Crawford's mind went into overdrive. It was all a matter of timing now. He knew his shields were good; Vlad would only have picked up surface thoughts, and those weakly. But had he picked up the distinctly anti-Rosenkreuz grousing, or the grudgingly grateful mutterings? Either way, he could still be in for trouble.

Hertz wandered around the mostly empty hall, hands in his pockets. Most of the students still had no idea what was going on. Hertz took one hand out of a pocket, drawing with it a gun. He shot Romani, the healer who had suggested staying in the main school, another precog Crawford recognised from classes and several he didn't know. 

There was silence, apart from the occasional thump as the cooling bodies slumped to the floor.

"Congratulations," Hertz said softly, the acoustics of the room echoing the word back and forth. "You have graduated."

Oh, this is so going to last much longer than I ever meant it to. I know what happens in the last chapter, but there's six years to fill prior to that! If it takes me nine chapter to cover two years, writing at an average of one every two days… Tell you what, let's really zoom through the next year so I can bring Schu back, okkei? 


	11. Future Echoes

Chapter Ten – Future Echoes 

Guess who watched the Red Dwarf episode of that very name the other night? ^_^ No real parallels though, it just happened to suit this chapter. I'm beginning to get closer to the real rating of this fic, R, here. While things ought to start looking up, I'm getting used to being a little more graphic. Just so you're warned. 

Bradley contemplated the room. The bedroom he got all to himself. Sure, he'd been alone for most of the last year, but this room only had one bed. And a window. With curtains. There was a communal bathroom just down the hall, which he shared with only three other men. And it had a bath…

Bradley's feet curled around the taps and he sank a little further beneath the water. No foam, that was a luxury too far, but an actual bath? He hadn't had a bath since before he came to Rosenkreuz. Water all the way around him, supporting him, caressing him. Even a bar of soap, though it produced a woefully small number of bubbles.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then submerged completely. All modesty was laid aside now, he shared a bath, shower, toilet and two sinks with three other men and the door had no lock. Oddly enough, there had been no complaints about him being the first to use the bath, as long as they got to use it when he was done. There was a limit to the amount of water they were allowed to use, and no point running more than one bath.

So this was life after Rosenkreuz? But it was still in Rosenkreuz, just yet another part of the building. He'd proven his talent for leadership in the graduation games, and they were willing to let him do as he wished. He'd keep 'teaching', keep _searching_, and keep sucking up. He would learn how to use every weapon known to man, from a sling to a hydrogen bomb; he would learn every fighting technique they could teach him; he would learn how to manage a household, from tax returns and choosing insurance to cooking a simple meal for four; he would learn how to command and coerce others into doing his bidding. And, next year, he would be allowed out of the complex. On his own.

His fingers curled around his cock and coaxed it into an erection, dreaming of the power and control he would gain. Sliding his hand back and forth, he brought images of Tanya to his mind, trying to avoid reopening old wounds, undressing her mentally. But as climax neared, his thoughts gained a mind of their own. A vision began to build in momentum as his hand jerked frenetically back and forth and climax neared. A teenaged boy with orange hair lay naked on his bed. He was lying naked with the boy. They were having sex. He was watching himself have sex with another man, with the ginger German boy. It shimmered and other visions overlapped with it. They were both men, in a large bed, having sex. The redhead had chlorine green hair, and they were having sex. They were having sex outside. They were having sex in a cheap hotel. They were having sex on an aeroplane. They were having sex at a train station. As the figures in all of the visions climaxed simultaneously, so did Bradley.

He gasped, taking in water. Struggling to sit up, he stared at the water with dismay. Semen lay like curdled milk across the surface, some clinging wetly to his chest hairs. He couldn't empty the bath, this was most of the week's water.

He clung to these thoughts like a drowning man. As long as he concentrated on small, immediate things, he could ignore the content of the vision. The fact he'd seen himself have sex with someone he intended to employ later in life. The fact that said person was a man. The fact that he was quickly getting hard again thinking about it.

He turned his attention back to the problem at hand. Hand. Not a good word. Too many things he could be doing with his hand right now. His hand had got him into this mess. Mess. What a mess he'd made. Made. Rhymes with laid…

He hit himself on the side of the head. ENOUGH! Climbing out of the bath, he used his hands to skim the surface and collect the white viscous liquid. Carrying it carefully, cringing with every step, he flushed the semen down the toilet. The bath was still a bit of a state, but after several minutes he managed to work up enough of a lather with the soap to hide the remains of what he'd done. Berating himself viciously, he grabbed a towel and made his way out of the room and down the corridor.

"Bath's free!" he called, and left the other to their mad scramble to be the first to get in the spoiled water. Still feelings a bit sick, he made his way into his room and surveyed the new clothes Estet had provided.

It was Estet now, not Rosenkreuz. Estet would provide for his every need, as they saw fit, not Rosenkruez. So there were suits, perfectly tailored. One white, one black, one charcoal grey, and one navy blue pinstriped. He would fit in perfectly wherever he went, not standing out in any way whatsoever. There was even a briefcase.

Shying away from the white, he dressed slowly in the grey woollen three-piece suit. It was surprisingly warm and comfortable, and he found himself smiling as he stared out of the second story window. Winter in the Alps. So much white! He slammed the curtain closed, unhappily reminded of his vision so soon.

"Perhaps," he said aloud, "it was just a fantasy." That didn't sit well with him either. "Perhaps it was rape?" No, he'd never let himself be raped, that was too much like losing control. And he'd seem well, 'happy' in the visions. "Perhaps there are extenuating circumstances," he told himself. "Maybe it's one of those visions that can be altered." It didn't feel like it, but it was a vaguely comforting thought. It could even have been a different timeline; that had been known to happen, though not to him.

Bradley sighed and made his way out of the small room. He had to teach.

* * *

Much of the year was passed in simple routine, teaching, training, thinking. He kept his mind off of the disturbing visions, but he got the impression he was repressing a lot of dreams based on them. More than once he woke up from what had apparently been a wet dream, unable to recall the exact substance of the dream. He pushed such thoughts away, though, and forced himself to go through life as if nothing was troubling him.

Things were though, and not just the dreams. He'd still heard nothing from Tanya, and he still wasn't allowed phone access to try and contact her. There were murmurings from the top, suggesting the council had plans, and said plans involved him personally. His visions seemed to attest that, implying that in his pursuit of personal power he was going to get more than he bargained for. He was doing more and more of the teaching in the general studies classes, and he feared being cornered into teaching them permanently. Hertz was still his superior, and would periodically remind him of that. His back was a mass of bruises.

And the worst thing? He was lonely. He'd never been lonely before. He knew no one. He learnt names and faces, but they never spoke to him unless forced. The others who shared his bathroom treated him with the same respect they had as students, and kept the same distance. 

Lying in the itchy sheets early on autumn morning, towards the end of the year, Bradley made peace with himself. It was the visions that made him lonely. In the visions, the German and himself shared something, and neither was alone. This reminder of what he didn't have was hurting him more each day. If these things were to happen, he would accept them, as long as it got rid of this awful ache.

Climbing out of the bed into the frigid air, he leant against the icy window. He'd had another dream last night, and he'd managed not to repress it. Instead he revelled in the comfort it offered. His own sleek body, unmarred by scars and bruises, and the wiry pale German, made an image as aesthetically pleasing as it was sexually pleasing.

Another dream, another day. He showered and dressed and made his way to the main building. The day passed almost without incident, until supper destroyed the clean record he'd maintained all year.

Sitting alone, as usual, he'd been pushing food around on his plate with his usual enthusiasm. He was startled out of his reverie when he gained company, a fellow post-graduate sitting down opposite him. Too shocked to speak, he stared at her for several seconds. Long blonde hair curled around a heart shaped face, and blue eyes sparkled mischievously.

"So you are the famous Bradley Crawford?" she lilted. "I am Mared."

"You're Welsh," Bradley observed, more than a little unnerved.

"Yes," she smiled, and dimples appeared in her cheeks. Bradley was smitten. "I thought you looked like you would appreciate some company."

"I appreciate the sentiment, but I was happy on my own," Bradley snapped, his ego a little bruised. She looked hurt, and began to stand. "Don't go!" Bradley half shouted, then blushed furiously. "I was happy on my own," he told the bemused girl, "but I am happier with you here." Internally he was spitting and cursing himself. He was making a spectacle out of himself, in front of such a pretty girl!

She laughed merrily. "Well, you are quite the charmer." She sat back down again. "What's you're gift?" she began to make conversation.

Meal forgotten, Bradley smiled gratefully and forced himself to get a grip on himself. "Precognitive. And you?"

"Shouldn't your power tell you?" she laughed flirtatiously.

"If I told you what you were going to say, you wouldn't say it, so how could I foresee it?" She looked blank. "No," he explained patiently, "my power doesn't tell me."

"Oh! I'm a healer!" She smiled prettily, but her charms were rapidly beginning to wear off on Bradley. Not the brightest lass. In fact, most of the surviving Rosenkreuz students were a little lacking when it came to intelligence. The stupid were more easily brainwashed, Bradley reasoned, so they tended to survive when those with doubts were culled.

"Would you like to join me for 'coffee'?" she batted her eyes. Bradley frowned. She'd been a summer, graduating earlier this year. She wouldn't be allowed to have a coffee machine. Then it dawned on him.

"No. Thank you. Though I appreciate the offer." He stood up to leave.

"You're turning me down?" she spat. The sudden change in mood was startling in it's ferocity. "You, Mr Bradley 'I-barely-survived-because-my-loyalties-are-questionable-but-I'm-too-damn-useful-to-kill' Crawford, dare turn me, Miss Mared 'perfect-example', down?"

"Sorry," Crawford said calmly. He knew what she was going to do next, though it seemed she had little idea. He put his plate and cutlery on the table, and picked up the tray just as she lunged at him, using it to shield himself from clawing fingers. They were attracting a lot of attention, but now he was on top of the situation Crawford didn't mind. It was Mared who came across badly, to the casual viewer.

"Mared!" a voice boomed. Shit. Hertz. "Herr Crawford!"

Crawford lowered the tray and turned to face the diminutive controlled of Rosenkreuz. It was a mistake. Mared latched onto his arm, digging pointed nails through wool and linen to shred his arm. Crawford didn't even flinch, but he hit her, hard.

She fell onto the floor, but sat up almost immediately. "Hah!" she snapped. "The wounds inflicted today will never heal!" Crawford stared at her blankly. "I've used my gift to scar you for life," she told him triumphantly.

"You've scratched my arm," he said in a maddeningly calm voice. "Are you really that shallow as to believe that will bother me?"

"Oh, it will tonight," someone else said. Mared climbed to her feet and stood next to the plainer girl.

"This is my friend, Claire. She's a precog, like you. She knows what she's talking about." Mared was smirking at Crawford, her previously stunning looks warped into an ugly façade of vengeful triumph. "No one turns me down and gets away with it!"

Hertz shot her.

Crawford watched the body collapse bonelessly, in the way only a corpse could. It was credit to Rosenkreuz's training that not a single other person in the room batted an eyelid, including Clair, who had had her arm around Mared.

"Come with me," Hertz commanded. Crawford followed, obedient, to suffer yet another beating at the hands of the sadistic Nazi.

He lay on his bed, much later that night, having woken from another vision-dream. Again, he and he German boy had been going at it like rabbits. His unscarred body contrasting with the German's battered physique. The bruises on his torso would heal, eventually, but the scars on his arm were there to stay. In the vision, he was unscarred. In life, he had four white streaks on his arm. 

He was going to remain alone. They weren't real visions. They couldn't be. The loneliness wasn't going to stop. It wasn't   going   to   end. His heart throbbed painfully in his chest, and his stomach ached in sympathy. He didn't care about sex. He didn't believe in love. He didn't need any friends. All he had wanted was the promise of a companion, one day, and that promise had already been broken. Despair clutched his heart like a drowning man, and the final echoes of a future that would never be faded into black nothingness, insubstantial as mist in a dark night.

For the first time in a long time, Bradley rolled over and cried himself back to sleep.

I missed the angst. I was suffering from angst-deprivation. Poetic-angst-deprivation. It's randomly OOC, I know, but I had a year to fill in a single chapter and nothing to fill it with. He'll be back to his 'normal' self soon enough. And oo look, is that the arrival of Schu I see just over the horizon? Could it be could it be, could it be could it be, could it possible be Benja- Sorry, Joseph and The Technicoloured Dreamcoat moment there. ^_^ 


	12. Just Over The Horizon

Chapter Eleven – Just Over The Horizon 

The title of this chapter bears little or no relevance to what actually happens, it's just a 'throwaway' phrase from the comment I made at the end of the last chapter… 

It was freedom. Not just within Rosenkreuz, but without it. Actually independence. Movement of the best kind. A chance to _do as he wished_. Within reason, of course.

Errand boy. Even Bradley could see that, despite all the ceremonial trappings they gave his position. He was running messages and packages back and forth between Rosenkreuz in the Austrian Alps and an Estet building in Berlin. And the only reason he got it was because he was the only post-graduate who knew how to drive.

But still, standing on the street corner in Berlin, holding the brown paper package in suspiciously dry palms (not all of the deodorant adverts lie, just most) he waited for the contact. They wouldn't let him anywhere near the actual building yet. He was rapidly learning that the council believed that knowledge was power, so it was handed out in limited portions only to those who could be trusted. Bradley meant to earn that trust, that knowledge, that power, but in the mean time he had to put up with being left out of the loop.

An elderly man came up and asked him for the time. Bradley replied apologetically that his watch wasn't working. The old man revealed that he used to be a watchmaker, but he couldn't be having with any of this battery nonsense. Stopped working if it so much as rained, he said. Bradley agreed, saying he'd dropped his watch in the bath and was only wearing it out of habit.

The old man said, "It's like some daft James Bond film, isn't it? I keep expecting to see Q turn up with a helicopter in a briefcase."

Bradley chuckled dryly. "Quite. I was expecting to have to walk into you or something, and surreptitiously swap packages."

"We used to do that," the old man admitted, "but people kept dropping things or ending up with the wrong package and to be quite frank it's bloody difficult to do that sort of thing subtlety."

"I suppose I'm meant to accidentally leave this here, and you'll absentmindedly pick it up and intend to take it to the lost and found at a police station somewhere?"

"Something like that, but that's still pretty difficult to pull off. Business men are always meeting to exchange things, so it's best this way."

"True." Bradley handed over the package with a faint smile. "So, how long have you been doing this? You make it sound like a long time."

"Ever since I got out of Rosenkreuz," the elderly man said jovially. He noticed the stunned expression on Bradley's face. "I know, it's not most people's ideal job, but I'm pretty weakly talented, a telempath, by the way, and it keeps me out of trouble."

"I don't intend to be doing it for the rest of the year, let alone the rest of my life," Bradley spluttered.

"Well more fool you. I'm not an important person, or a powerful person, so people don't bother with me. I get a fair wage and a decent home. You want power, you have it, but you'll never see thirty. Those at the top are very protective of their positions."

"I'm not going to take those positions from them," Bradley reassured him. "I'm going to create a new one."

"Good luck with that," the old man said wryly. "I'll see you around, no doubt." With a brief wave, the elderly gentleman walked off down the busy street, parcel clutched under one bony arm.

Bradley turned to make his way back to his car when a vision hit him. Hit him like an express train. He staggered backwards, one hand to his head, gasping for breath. A young woman gave him a concerned look, but he waved her away. Staggering to a bench, he sat down and tried to collect his scattered wits.

The redhead. Urgent. Death. Trembling slightly and still confused, Bradley forced himself to his feet again and set off down the road, ignoring looks he got from passers-by. Breathing deeply, he stared around. An alley. This was a wealthy part of Berlin. No dirty alleys around here.

When he was younger, Bradley had visited Berlin several times. His father thought it a good way of teaching him about the 'damn dirty reds'. Bradley had found himself admiring the communist sentiment, if not the way it was put into practice. It had earned him several beatings.

Now, with the Berlin wall relatively recently toppled, the city was a different place. But still, he could recognise both parts of the city, and the alley he'd seen the redhead in was in what had been the Eastern sector. Making his way towards his car, Bradley climbed into the plush black vehicle and set off. His vision blurred, his hands unsteady, his heart racing, he narrowly avoided both pedestrians and street signs as he wove his way across town, speeding through red lights and once even going straight over a roundabout, one of those one wit a raised bump covered in flowers in the middle. Later, he'd have nightmares about the journey, but right now he was having nightmares about what would happen if he were too late.

Despite the scars on his arm disproving the visions that had long since ceased, he still felt a great affinity towards the boy he was going to save. Ever since first meeting him in the showers on his first day at Rosenkruez, he'd known something was going to happen. But it nothing would happen if the boy died of a drug overdose.

Jamming the pedal against the floor, Bradley roared through Berlin. Closing his eyes, he spun the wheel and slammed on the brakes, spinning the car sideways to slam into a parking space at the side of the road in a manoeuvre he'd seen on films like the Blues Brothers but never had the nerve or the need to try it out before. Breathing deeply, he climbed out and locked the shuddering vehicle and began to sprint towards the alley where he knew the boy would be.

It was dark and damp, in this space between two towering buildings. Needles were scattered across the cracked pavement, as well as cigarettes and used condoms. The word that came to Bradley's mind was 'dank'.

Pressed against a wall, clutching a dirty hypothermic, a redhead cowered. His breathing was shallow and his pupils dilated. Bradley couldn't begin to guess what the boy was taking, or what state he was in both physically and mentally. He crouched beside the boy, thankful that he was still breathing. Glazed eyes stared into his own as he gently took the needle away and injected its contents into the air.

"Do you know how much that cost?" a nasal voice grated out in German.

"It would have cost you your life," Bradley said quietly in the same language.

"Maybe that's what I wanted to pay." He tried to sit up, but his muscles wouldn't obey him. Bradley saw how painfully thin he was. "Hey," the boy snarled, "I'm not that ugly. So what if I could do to gain a few pounds?"

"I've seen healthier corpses," Bradley commented wryly. He picked the protesting boy up and was shocked by the lightness of the atrophied body. One arm was a mass of purple bruises. "I'm taking you somewhere they'll be able to help."

"You're taking me back _there_," the boy spat. "You think I don't remember you? You think I've forgotten that place? I'm not going back."

"You're not getting a choice." Bradley surveyed the street, the quickly crossed to his car and opened the passenger door, placing the boy securely inside. "Do yourself a favour, boy, and let me do the talking. You'll be safer with me than in any dorm."

"Dorm?" the boy coughed, a smoker's cough. "That weren't no dorm."

"No, you ended up in the Laboratories. I'll do my best to keep you out of there, this time."

The boy regarded him with suspicion, but didn't question Bradley's motives. Instead he let his head collapse back against the seat while Bradley buckled him in. There was a shrill beeping that made him wince. Bradley rescued the car phone from its hook and spoke in muted tones to a voice on the other end.

"Yes, yes. I understand… Of course I'll… To be honest… Really I… Please…" Annoyance began to creep into his tone. "Sir, if… Would you… I think… Sir! If you would give me a moment! I don't think he'd survive the trip. To be honest I'll be lucky to get him to a local hospital before he drops dead … Where? … Give me a minute to write down the… I see. Backwards? … What page? … Thank you. I'll be in contact as soon as we arrive. Thank you… You too, sir. Goodbye."

Dull blue eyes regarded Bradley with apathy as he reached over and began searching through the glove compartment. Coming up with a small black book, he found an address written in English. There were several, and he read them all. He glanced down at his new charge.

"Narr [fool]," Bradley muttered angrily. It was an anger born out of frustration and worry, but it was anger nevertheless. The boy flinched slightly and began to cough again. A soothing hand was placed on his arm as they drove.

"Who are you?" Bradley asked, not expecting a reply.

"The guilty one," the boy murmured. "Guilty."

Bradley frowned. "I meant, what is your name? What do you call yourself?"

"The guilty one," the boy said again. "Schuldig." Bradley noted with concern that the boy has slipped into unconsciousness as he pulled up in front of a plain fronted building, like almost any other building. If he were wrong, the boy would be dead before they reached their real destination. If he were right, the boy would be so close to death he'd be able to recognise him in any identity parade.

He was lucky; it was the right building. The boy was ushered away while Bradley was left to deal with the miles of red tape. The first question alone threw him, and he found himself blinking like he'd just emerged from a cave after several months of darkness.

"Schuldig," he said eventually. "He said he was Schuldig."

The Indian bureaucrat took this down without comment, and when the red head woke up, he found he'd been officially named 'guilty', after an idiot American had mistaken the nonsensical rambles of a drug-induced delirium for a real answer.

That idiot American was going to have a lot to pay for, one day.

Ta-da! 


	13. How The Mighty Are Fallen

Chapter Twelve – How the Mighty are Fallen 

The next time Bradley saw Schuldig, he was conscious, and going cold turkey. Alone in a sparse room, he was curled upright on the bed, shivering. Bradley watched through some one-way glass, having been abandoned there by a med student a quarter of an hour ago. His feelings towards the young German were mixed. Sympathy and contempt, hope and despair, longing and revulsion. Bradley had never been so uncertain of himself, and he hated it.

"You gonna stand there all day?" the boy croaked out, and Bradley realised that of course a telepath would be aware of his silent presence.

He entered the tiny room. Bloodshot eyes glowered balefully at him, and the boy trembled like a leaf in the wind. Still he seemed to have regained full use of his faculties, and was in control of himself.

"They say," Bradley commented, "there were so many drugs in your system they couldn't distinguish them. I'm pulling a lot of strings here to keep you from being dissected. They say you should have died months ago."

"Yeah, well," the boy shrugged grumpily. "It was a little quieter."

Bradley nodded, moving to sit on the end of the bed. "Believe me or not, I can empathise. It's easy to be overwhelmed."

Schuldig snorted. "The weak are overwhelmed," he said, confirming Bradley's won theory. "The strong find ways to cope."

"And this self-destructive abuse was coping?" Bradley asked sharply.

"You think I was gonna go back _there_? You think I was gonna let them brainwash me to be some damn puppet in their schemes? I'd rather suffer alone."

"Too late, but you've earned yourself the distinction of being the only person to escape Rosenkreuz." Bradley sighed. "I'm doing what I can. They're not going to take you back to the Laboratories, but you'll be in solitary until your system has purged itself of those chemicals and they're convinced you won't fall back on your old ways."

"Then I'm here for good, ja? They're never gonna be certain." Schuldig watched Bradley over his knees, still shivering but too proud to ask for more bedding. He knew he wouldn't get it anyway.

"True," Bradley conceded. "But you can earn their trust."

"Yeah, sucking up like you. No thank you. Besides, who are this 'they'?" Schuldig caught Bradley's eyes and held them, staring into his soul. Bradley hated the naked feeling the raw blue eyes left him with, and his internal shields began to build themselves up to levels they'd never reached before.

"I wish I knew," he said, spacing the words carefully and lending equal weight to each. He wanted Schuldig to know it didn't matter.

Schuldig's lowered his gaze and tugged weakly on the rough blanket. Bradley moved so the boy could wrap it more tightly around himself.

"What's going to happen to me?" he asked, keeping the scared-child tremor from his voice only with a supreme effort. He was sixteen, forced to grow up long before his time but still only sixteen. He was terrified, and he knew he had good reason to be.

"You'll join the main school and go through it as any other pupil, once you leave here. You'll probably get a lot of extra training on controlling your gift, as it's rare and one of the most dangerous. They may summon Gregory back-"

"Nein!" Schuldig whimpered despite himself and buried his head in his knees. The memory of that betrayal was still too fresh, even after three years, and a broken heart can be a long time healing.

"I see…" Bradley stared at him. Schuldig felt the weight of that gaze and forced himself to meet it, hating himself for his weakness. "I wonder if there's any one else?" Bradley mused aloud. "Still, you will be trained, and in three years you will have to graduate and then you will probably get a relatively free rein, as they can't afford to lose you. Find yourself a nice empty part of the world, if such a thing is still possible."

"Nein," Schuldig said. "I couldn't bear the silence." Bradley looked confused. "I take the drugs to keep it down in here," Schuldig explained, "and to keep myself separate. I know that I'm the one who is tripping, or high, or whatever. I wouldn't know what to do if it was _just_ me."

"I see."

Silence followed this enigmatic statement, filling moments, then minutes, then an entire hour. Schuldig 's eyelids grew heavy, but he refused to sleep while this American was in the room. Bradley watched him, still confused about his feelings towards the younger man. Now they were in the same room, the boy's presence was overwhelming, and Bradley wondered how he'd cope with that, or whether he'd be weak and succumb. There was a knock on the door that made Schuldig jump violently, whilst Bradley remained unperturbed. The main that entered shocked even him, though.

"Herr Hertz," Bradley was immediately on his feet, "What-…this _is_ an unexpected honour. I thought you were at Rosenkreuz."

"The time has come," the short German announced, "to move this young man to the main facility. Your comments on the matter, Herr Crawford, have been duly noted." Schuldig wrapped the blanket tighter around himself. The psychic waves pouring of the man were drowning him, and he'd never hated anyone as much as he hated the sadistic bastard who would control his life from now on, it seemed.

"I see. Thank you very much. His welfare is important to Estet, so I am concerned with it," Crawford said smoothly. "I believe another stay in the Laboratories would be extremely detrimental for his psychological state of mind, and physically he is still in terrible shape."

The bastard was thinking at him! The Neo-Nazi was doing it on purpose! Schuldig cowered as malicious thoughts flooded his head, smothering his being in fear and pain. He crawled along the mattress, unwatched, heading towards the calmest place in the room. Bradley knew what the boy was going to do, but even that didn't prepare him for the icy touch of his flesh.

"What is the boy doing?" Hertz growled.

"I don't know," Crawford lied effortlessly.

"Leise… ruhig," Schuldig murmured, pressing his forehead into the small of Crawford's back.

"Quiet? Calm?" Hertz appeared amused. "I've heard a lot about your psychic shields," he revealed to Crawford, "but I hadn't imagined they could have this sort of effect. We might have to use you in training some of the more volatile telempaths. And of course, our new telepath, ja, Schuldig?"

"Nein," Schuldig whimpered. "Let me go." Ironically, he clung even tighter to Bradley. Pressing his consciousness against Crawford's shields, he was able to borrow some of that quiet serenity they seemed to create. He desperately tried to worm his way passed them, to enter what he believed would be an oppressively well ordered and calm mind beyond, but they were too tight. It was just was well, as he would have been terribly disappointed. Bradley's mind was a chaotic maelstrom of fear and longing and resentment and deep confusion. The press of flesh on flesh as Schuldig wormed his way beneath Bradley's shirt wasn't helping either.

Hertz laughed.

Crawford smoothed out a frown before it had time to develop, and bit back a harsh remark. While he needed the telepath whole, he had to put himself first. And that meant not scolding his superior for insensitive behaviour. Gently removing himself from Schuldig's vicelike grip, he stood up.

"I hope the transfer goes without hassle," he said politely. "Do you require me for anything else? I ought to be heading back to Rosenkreuz myself."

Hertz waved him way, and Crawford left the two countrymen alone together. It took all of his self-possession not to run back in and 'save' Schuldig.

* * *

Crawford leant against the wall and stuck an arm out. It caught Schuldig in the chest as he rounded the corner, and he landed with a thump on his backside. Winded, the young German sat up. He started to get up, and Crawford placed a foot on his shoulder, keeping him sitting, for the time being.

"I didn't think you'd recover so soon, or have you found a supplier within the grounds?" 

Schuldig spat at him. 

"If we go back now, I will be the only one to know of this indiscretion. I strongly advise that course of action." Crawford took his foot from Schuldig's shoulder and offered him a hand instead. Ignoring the preferred arm, Schuldig struggled to his feet on his own. Crawford looked over the body he had last seen a month ago. It was still painfully thin, and covered in bruises, but there a vitality that had been lacking the last time they'd met. The vitality was born of hatred and resentment, but it was better than the lifeless despair that had previously animated the teen's body.

"You can't keep me here," Schuldig said in the face of opposing evidence.

"Can Hertz? I see you've spent some time in his office," Crawford frowned at the welts from the whip he knew too well himself, and the deeper bruises from the stick.

Schuldig looked deflated. "I can't stay here," he muttered. "It'll kill me."

"Most people feel that way about this place. Most are right," Crawford admitted candidly. "But call it a hunch; I think you'll survive. It's the outside world that was fatal to you."

"The drugs? Why does everyone keep harping on about that?" Schuldig whined. Crawford began to steer him back to the dormitory he was supposed to be in. "I've learnt enough here, I can keep myself separate. It wasn't the drugs I was addicted to." Crawford gave him an odd look. "Look, when you find yourself snorting icing sugar, you know it goes so much deeper than physical dependence. I took drugs for the sake of taking drugs. It made me think it was calmer, whether it was or not. But now it is calm… er."

"I see."

"You always say that," Schuldig whinged nasally. "What gives you such good sight, huh?"

"I am a precog, though I don't suppose you know what that means."

"Maybe I do." Schuldig shrugged it off. "Don't take me back there," he said.

"Where?" Crawford asked, his curiosity piqued by the incongruous demand.

"Those hellholes. The Dormitories. Come on, where you ever in one? The pain! And so many… I can't sleep in there. As soon as I relax my shields collapse and I'm screaming along with them. That's why I keep getting beaten, coz I make such a fuss at night. I can't help it! So much pain, so much fear… It's not a place for a telepath." Schuldig wrapped his thing arms around himself and gazed at Crawford imploringly. "You're so quiet inside. None of them have that sort of discipline."

Crawford smirked. "I see you've learnt the first rule of Rosenkreuz," he observed.

"What, we live for the glory of Estet?" Schuldig looked confused.

"No. Flattery will get you everywhere. Flatter Estet and Rosenkreuz, and you might just survive the hazing processes. Flatter Hertz, and he might go a little easier on you. Flatter your masters and they might teach you what you need to know, rather than what they think you ought to know."

"I'm not a flattery sort of person," Schuldig told him. "It's like tact, just another kind of lie. I don't lie."

"Why not?" Crawford stopped in front of Schuldig. "If you're going to survive here, you might have to."

"Yeah, coz when they all the telempaths won't spot _that_." Schuldig glowered darkly at him. "Do you have any idea how hard it is? All these different thoughts crowding around in here. Too much information. It's hard enough as it is, without people saying one thing and thinking another. That's just confusing."

Crawford laughed gently. "I suppose it is." He brushed a strand of hair from Schuldig's eyes and frowned into the blue orbs. There was no trust, no innocence, and almost no humanity left in that baleful glare, but there was still a person. Someone to bend to his will, yes (though he had no idea how difficult _that_ was going to be), but also someone to model in his own image and to maybe even turn into a fully functioning member of society. Now _that_ would be an accomplishment, and one even his father would have had to appreciate.

"Your father?" Schuldig frowned. "Is he here or something?"

"What?" Crawford stared at him. "No! He's dead. I thought you said I had impenetrable shields?"

"I don't even know what impeni-whatsit means, so I doubt it," Schuldig said acidly. "You got good shields. The only bit I got was 'father'. Heh, there's some serious Freudian stuff there, ain't there?"

"Shut up." Crawford was stung. How had the boy picked up on his weakest point so quickly? And why was he making it so obvious that it was a raw area? "He's dead," he reiterated. "Come on, we've more important things to be dealing with."

"Like what?" Schuldig crossed his arms across his chest.

"I thought you wanted out of that dormitory," Crawford smiled with more than a hint of a condescending smirk and began to walk the opposite way down the corridor. Schuldig, momentarily caught be surprise, hurried to keep up.

"You're not going to _Him_?" Schuldig asked, aghast. "He'll just try to make it worse for me! He hates me!"

"That as may be," Crawford said coldly, "you are an invaluable resource, and he knows what would happen if anything were to happen to you. That is our bargaining chip, so try and look a bit more worse for wear, okay?"

"'Worse for wear'?" Schuldig snapped. "_'Wor se for wear_'? I'm so covered in bruises I can't lie down, I can count my own ribs, I suffer the most exquisite mental torture day and night, and you think I need to look 'a bit more _worse for wear_'. If I was any worse I'd be dead!"

He couldn't see the grin that briefly flickered across Crawford's face. "Try and seem a little more, well, insane? Say what you hear inside. Especially what he's thinking."

"Coz you'd rather keep your thoughts to yourself, aye?" Schuldig shoved his hands into the waistband of his trousers and his trotting walk turned into more of a saunter. "Think I'll get a room to myself?" he asked carelessly.

"I think you know nothing about this place," Crawford told him. "The least you'll get is three others. They might stick you in a third year room, probably with some other active mentals. You might end up sharing with whoever's training you."

They reached Hertz's office. Schuldig didn't need to act now, he was trembling from the memories of every other time he'd come here. Almost every night. Hertz was being gentle with him, but Schuldig had no way of knowing that. Those Hertz wasn't gentle with were usually corpses by the time he was done. Schuldig tentatively slipped a hand into Crawford's, who gazed down at him with mild contempt. Even outside, Schuldig could feel the waves of sadistic pleasure the man got from his work.

Crawford knocked, and they were called in. Schuldig almost collapsed as that malevolent energy focussed itself on him.

"Ah, our little telepath is here for a visit. Earlier than usual, today." Hertz reached for his stick.

"Herr Hertz, if I may make so bold, I have suggestion relating to Schuldig." Crawford was, as ever, ingratiatingly polite.

"Really?" the man sounded bored.

"As we both know, the development and control of his power are vital to Estet. I believe, based upon what the boy has told me and research I have done into the training of telepaths, that the dormitories are damaging that development. The sheer weight of the other trainees thoughts and concerns are forcing him to repress his talent, and he's not sleeping."

"Repress?" Hertz, as hoped, picked up on the key word. "You are implying that if this goes on the strength of his gift will lessen."

"To be frank, yes. Telepaths are notoriously hard to train, and Schuldig is the most powerful telepath in over a century. Ideally, he should be a long way from other psychics until much later in his training. Though, of course, I defer to your superior judgement in this."

Hertz nodded. "You are getting quite uppity, Herr Crawford. You act like your graduate status puts you on a level with other members of staff here, even myself. You would do well to remember the only people you are superior to are the students. You have no authority on which to base these suggestions, and 'to be frank', your arrogance is appalling. You are lucky that I share your views."

Crawford's heart constricted. Hertz was right. He'd forgotten to flatter the man excessively, and he was going to pay for that. Having an opinion is all well and good, but at Rosenkreuz you did not express it until a superior had deemed it suitable for expression. Hertz replaced his stick and picked up his whip.

"The boy will stay with you, since he seems to attached to you, and vice versa." Crawford was stunned. It made no sense to follow such a course of action. "Another bed will be set up in your quarters." Hertz pressed a bell, and a grunt appeared. "Take this boy to this man's quarters. Lock him in for now, ja?" Schuldig was led away. "Now, we both know what happens to arrogant little upstarts, don't we, _Herr_ Crawford?"

Crawford sighed in submission, and began to remove his clothing. Hertz held up a hand to stop him. "Not this time. As you _walk_ back to your room, I want everyone to know what happens when they believe themselves above their superiors."

As the strips of flesh dug into his own, Bradley gasped. He'd learnt long ago not to scream, but the linen shirt he was wearing stuck wetly to his torso and the trousers clung to his bloodied legs like Schuldig had clung to his hand earlier. It took all of his concentration to remain standing as the whip dug into his flesh time and time again, eliciting sharp shrieks and muffled whimpers. And when the whip was completely red, Hertz changed to his stick. His clothes hanging in bloody tatters, Crawford collapsed to his knees as the bone slammed into his legs, shattering his shin. But no matter how many times the stick slammed into his battered flesh, he didn't pass out. He'd learnt that lesson the first time: Hertz took unconsciousness as a goad to beat him until he never woke up. Even know, he had no idea how he'd survived that first beating.

It took him over an hour, once the beating was over, to get back to his room, normally only a ten-minute walk away. Branded into his back, as a final insult, was the phrase 'Pride comes before a fall'. It would fade, one day, but it would take a talented healer.

Schuldig opened the door to the room, the lock having held him for less than a minute. "Oh, how the mighty are fallen," he said with a malicious grin. Crawford had enough presence of mind to slap him, before passing out.


	14. The Three Rs

Chapter Thirteen – The Three Rs 

This is going to last so much longer than I meant it to. I'll be lucky to stop at thirty, and these chapters are even longer than in New Rules New Ruler! Ah well, lots of UST to enjoy. And there's going to be a lot… 

The first few weeks passed miraculously quietly. Bradley kept himself out of the room as often as possible, and did a lot of night work. Schuldig behaved surprisingly well, knowing he'd be sent straight back to the dormitories, or even the Laboratories, if he didn't keep the same timetable as the other first year students. They only saw each other first thing in the morning at in the general study lessons, but they avoided each other then.

One evening, as Bradley was about to leave the classroom, still on crutches, the timid man who acted a teacher placed a hand on his shoulder.

"If I could have moment of your time, Mr Crawford?" Bradley turned around, gratified to be addressed with such respect, though the light pressure the hand had exerted was resulting in excruciating pain suggested that, since the man was a telempath and knew perfectly well how much it would hurt, it was anything but a polite request.

"Certainly," he said, trying not to wince.

"You have been given Schuldig as a ward, yes?"

"I suppose you could say that. He's sleeping in my room, as the dormitories were too overwhelming." The teacher gestured for Bradley to sit down.

"I… well… you know there's a lot of trouble with most of the students having been, shall we say, undereducated? Now, you have been a great help in bringing those students up to scratch, for which I am supremely grateful. But, well… Schuldig can't even recite his alphabet properly. He's sixteen, but he can't count that high. He can partially speak a variety of languages, but only in the crudest of fashions. And as for history and geography…" The elderly man let that hang in the air for a moment. "I've been asked to tell you that if it doesn't change soon, he may well have to leave Rosenkreuz." They both knew what _that _implied. "I think he was moved into a room with you because it was hoped he would improve."

"I wish some had told me that," Bradley commented wryly. "I'll do the best I can in bringing him up to scratch."

"That's all you can do," he was told. "Of course, if you find it too much, they can always move him back into the dormitories."

* * *

"I have never been so embarrassed in my life!" Crawford snapped. "I _teach_ those classes, and to find out that you, who lives with me, can't even spell your own name! It was mortifying."

"I'm sure," Schuldig said sulkily. "What's the big deal?"

"Big deal? The big deal is that you can't read or write. How do you ever expect to function in society? If you saw a sign, how would you know if it was warning you away or encouraging you on? Reading, writing, 'rithmetic." He punctuated this by making chopping motions with one hand, slapping the palm of the other. "The three basic things every person needs!"

"I don't. I've survived this long without," Schuldig pouted.

"How?" Crawford spluttered. "Seriously, how have you coped? How do you intend to cope?" Schuldig shrugged the questions off. "Look, even if you can survive in the outside world, you'll never see it again! There's a written exam to graduate from here, and if you can't even read the essay question you'll never pass. _And those that fail are killed._ More than thirty students in my year were culled for being unable to answer the question in any legible or comprehensible format." Crawford sighed. "You don't have the faintest idea what either of those words mean, do you?" he demanded.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes!" Crawford couldn't work out how to get it through that damn thick skull. "Do you want to die?"

Schuldig opened his mouth to give some smart-arse retort, but none came. He frowned introspectively. "No," he said eventually. "I guess not, not any more."

"So are you willing to learn?" Bradley sighed. Schuldig remained silent. "They'll send you back to the dormitories if they think I can't cope with keeping an eye on you and teaching you. Then to the Labs. Then I don't know what, but nothing good can come after _that_."

"Yeah, I get it. Death and destruction." Bradley sat down on his bed with a sigh, and Schuldig perched on the edge of his own. They stared at each other across the narrow room, made narrower by the inclusion of another bed.

"So… recite your alphabet," Bradley said eventually. Schuldig remained stubbornly silent. "Go on, Recite. Your. Alphabet." Still silence. "Schuldig…" The warning tone was unmistakeable. Eventually, Schuldig caved.

"Look, if I can't do it, what's the point of trying?" he whined. Bradley's jawed dropped.

"If you don't try you're never going to be able to do it," he spluttered. "Go on, as much as you can."

"A?" Schuldig looked for confirmation. Bradley nodded encouragingly. "B… C D E…" he gazed at Bradley imploringly.

"F," Bradley prompted.

"F… I can't do it!" Schuldig moaned. "Look, just shoot me now, okay? Same result, but so much less hassle."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Bradley snapped. "Keep trying."

"F…G? H I…L?"

"No."

Schuldig stared at him for a moment, then rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. "I can't do it," he said in a muffled voice. "I'm stupid. Give up."

"Like you? Never." Bradley moved to sit on Schuldig's bed. "Look, Let's try something else, okay? How about counting?"

"I can count," Schuldig said in a surly voice, still with his head in his pillow. "1, 2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10. See?"

"What's after 10?"

There was silence. "I dunno," Schuldig admitted. "See, I'm stupid. Stupid, idiot me."

"Did someone tell you that, or is it your own opinion?" Bradley reached out and gave Schuldig's shoulder a squeeze.

"It's kinda obvious, isn't it? Can't read, can't write, can't count. Stupid. I'm sixteen. Most sixteen year olds can do long division, and stuff. Algebra. Calculus." He pronounced the words like they were part of a foreign language, and in most respects, they were. 

"Not stupid," Bradley corrected gently. "A little behind, that's all."

"A little?" Schuldig asked incredulously. "Six year olds are smarter than me."

"Okay, a lot, but they're not smarter than you. You keep confusing education with intelligence. You escaped from here, didn't you? I know a lot of very well educated people who wouldn't have been able to, but you were clever enough to work out how. You're the only person to have ever escaped."

"You're being very patronising," Schuldig observed dryly, sitting up. "Okay, I get your point. So teach."

"I'll need some supplies," Bradley sighed. "Stay here, okay?"

"Ja, ja," Schuldig kicked his feet against the side of the bed. "Be quick, okay? There's a lot to do cover in a short time, ja?"

"Ja," Bradley smiled. Now Schuldig had been persuaded, he would prove a willing pupil.

* * *

Schuldig lay stretched on the bed when Bradley got back, carrying reams of paper and a cupboards worth of stationary. Schuldig looked horrified.

"All that? I need all that?" Bradley dumped the paper on his won bed with a grateful sigh. He rubbed his aching shoulders wearily. Suddenly, a different pair of hands took over. Bradley relaxed into Schuldig's capable arms for a moment.

"You need more than this, unfortunately," the American sighed. "We haven't got _any_ books."

Schuldig used his thumbs to rub circles on Bradley's back and release the tensed muscles. "Are you sure? What about all those school in Africa with five hundred students per teacher and only one bit of paper and a blunt pencil to go around?"

"You're exaggerating," Bradley grinned. "You know, you're surprisingly good at this."

"So I've been told," Schuldig started to work on Bradley's lower back, his ministrations forcing Bradley to lie down on the bed. He moaned slightly. Schuldig's smile widened as he eased Bradley's shirt over his head.

"We should be getting on," Bradley muttered into the sheets. God, the boy was good! He hadn't had a massage like this since travelling with his father to the Turkish baths in, well, Turkey.

"Getting it on? I never thought you'd be so direct!" Schuldig's leer was evident in his voice, but so was an element of surprise. Bradley's eyes snapped open, and he sat up sharply, tumbling Schuldig off of the bed.

"No! Not like that! Get on with academic subjects."

Schuldig stared up at the flushed features of his mentor and put two and two together. Of course, Schuldig had no idea what two and two would make, but a blushing Bradley unable to look him in the eye spoke volumes to the German whore.

"Sure," Schuldig soothed. "Academic." He paused. "What's that mean?"

"Learning, I guess. Reading, writing, maths, history… everything, really." Bradley reached for his shirt, but Schuldig beat him to it.

"Ja, ja. In a minute, okay? I'm not done with you yet." Bradley frowned at him. "You're so tense!" Schuldig explained, "and I don't like to leave a massage like that. It'll probably get worse, because I've only partially loosened everything. It'll all tighten up much… tighter."

"We have to work on your vocabulary," Bradley said wryly, willingly accepting Schuldig's flimsy excuse to continue the massage, much to the young German's surprise.

Head nestled in a slim pillow, Bradley relaxed for the first time in what seemed like forever. Certainly, he'd been tense and alert ever since arriving at Rosenkreuz. Schuldig's nimble fingers worked the muscles in his back until they unwound, and Bradley found himself groaning in pleasure as he felt like he was melting into a puddle on the bed.

"You know what we need? Oil. Preferably scented," Schuldig announced, leaning over Bradley's hot back to murmur in his ear. For once, the physical closeness didn't bother the tranquil Bradley.

"No oil," he asserted indistinctly. That would be too much like one of those 'sensual massages'. He frowned into the pillow. "Schuldig, where did you learn to do this?"

"What, massage? Did it for clients, from time to time. I can feel what they like, you know? Really, it's more of a mental massage than a body massage." He began to knead Bradley's neck. "Always went down a treat."

"What exactly do you mean, 'mental massage'?" Suspicion began to creep into Bradley's tone, but he found he was too relaxed to really care.

"Not prying, just sort, 'easing'. Making the stress go away, just for a bit. Can't do it permanently, I'm, afraid. You make me wish I could, you know. You're way too stressed. You'll have a heart attack before you reach thirty." Schuldig rocked back and forth, and Bradley moaned again. Well, if Schuldig said it didn't matter, it couldn't matter. And it felt so good. He could feel the heat radiating off Schuldig's body and he swayed backwards and forwards above him. He was pretty hot himself. Perhaps oil wouldn't be such a bad idea? 

"Mm-hmm," Bradley moaned. Schuldig bit back a laugh. "Nngh. Aarh!" Deft fingers left Bradley limp and happy. He whimpered as Schuldig drew back. "Nnn… more," he groaned.

"Nein, all done." Schuldig smirked done at the wilting adult, squirming on the bed beneath him.

"Please, more!" Bradley begged. "More!"

Schuldig chuckled and lay down next to him. Bradley watched him with one eye. "No more," Schuldig murmured, "all done. You look sleepy."

"Uh-huh?" Bradley yawned into the pillow. "No more?" he asked dejectedly. 

Schuldig sighed and cuddled up next to Bradley's hot torso, leeching heat from the old man, who tried to put a friendly arm around the teen and pull him closer, but decided that was too much effort. Schuldig lifted the arm for him and nuzzled up to him. So what if he was using an unorthodox method of 'persuasion'? Bradley was happy. Schuldig hoped he'd remember that contented feeling in the morning.


	15. Educational Value

**Chapter Fourteen – Educational Value**

"Schuldig?"

"Yes?"

"What's that?"

"A cat."

"Did I ask you to draw a cat?"

Silence.

"What did I ask you to do, Schuldig?"

"Write my name."

"And yet, there is a cat."

Schuldig glowered at him. "Look, I'll write my name, okay? See, I'm writing my name. I'm signing my picture, if you like. See, look at the writing." And in big, childish letters, he wrote 'Shuldug' and stared at it with impatience. Eventually, he crossed out both 'u's and replaced them with 'i's. Bradley sighed and pressed his hand to his head. "Now what?" Schuldig moaned. "Look, I've written it and… it's wrong, isn't it? It's wrong. I still can't write my own name." The defeatist attitude was resurfacing more and more often now they'd actually started the tutoring. 

Bradley leant over and neatly pencilled in a 'c', as well as turning one of the 'i's back into a 'u'.  "Don't worry," he soothed. "You don't pronounce the 'c'. Look, I'm trying to teach you this from the point of view of someone who grew up with English pronunciation, not German. This is more my fault that yours."

"Yeah right," Schuldig moaned. "Look, let's face it, I'm stupid."

"No-oo," Bradley sighed. "Look, let's switch to arithmetic, okay? We've been doing this too long."

"We've spent two hours trying to get me to spell my name correctly," Schuldig sighed. "Come on, it's never going to happen. Can we take a break?"

Bradley considered. "Yes," he agreed eventually, as much for his own sake as Schuldig's. "But you shouldn't leave this room. You're missing all of your normal lessons for this."

"I don't need them," Schuldig pointed out. "I'm a telepath. Anything I need to know I can get from other people's heads."

"Except this, it seems," Bradley noted wryly. Schuldig's face fell immediately. "It's a good cat," Bradley ventured.

Schuldig glanced down at the piece of paper. A slender feline was sprawled across the page, mottled black and white with large eyes that gazed out of the page in complacent luxury. It was an amazing cat, truth be told, but Schuldig thought art was a pointless subject with no real value. Bradley shared that opinion, but part of him had been trained to feel that art appreciation as something every gentleman should be able to do, and he knew a natural artist when he saw one.

An idea occurred to him. "Perhaps it would be easier," he ventured, "if you treat the letters and words as pictures. You have a good visual memory, as opposed to phonetic. Think about what the words look like, instead of what the sound like." A memory of his early years suggested itself. "Like 'bed' in English. It looks like a bed. It should also help you keep your 'b's and 'd's the right way round."

Schuldig frowned. On a fresh piece of paper he wrote the word 'bed' carefully, in rounded letters. The look of concentration on his face wrenched at Bradley's heartstrings. He was beginning to develop a real affection for the German kid.

"Watch it, old man," Schuldig grinned. "I ain't some adorable little moppet. I've killed before."

"So have I," Bradley revealed casually. Schuldig had ceased to listen, and was staring at his handiwork. With the beginnings of a smile he added a pillow to one end of the word, and held it up for Bradley to see.

"That right?" he asked, hardly daring to hope. Bradley nodded. Schuldig flung his arms around Bradley. "I wrote a word without copying!" he said proudly. "Now, if only my name was bed, instead of Chri- Schuldig."

"'Chri'?" Bradley slipped a companionable arm around Schuldig's shoulders, giving them a congratulatory squeeze. "What is your real name?" he asked with curiosity.

"Schuldig. If you mean 'what's my birth name', who gives a fuck? It was given to me by a pair of idiots a long time ago, and represents part of my life I don't want to revisit," Schuldig said candidly. "Schuldig suits me much better. It's not only who I am, but what I am."

"Okay," Bradley accepted this. Schuldig gave him a surprised look, but didn't push his luck.

"Can we go outside?" Schuldig asked. "I bet I'd learn much better outside."

"The only bit of 'outside' you're allowed in is that awful courtyard."

"So? I haven't been outside since I got here. I need to stretch my legs and smell fresh air."

"We're not allowed. Tell you what, I'll open the window."

Bradley got up to struggle with the stiff frame. Schuldig gave him a sceptical look. "That's it?" he asked. Bradley didn't spare him a glance. "We're not going outside because 'we're not allowed'? That's a bullshit answer."

"Yes," Bradley said simply, "but I'm still regrowing skin from the last time I did something I shouldn't have, and I don't really feel like being beaten into unconsciousness again."

Schuldig considered this. "And if we weren't caught?"

"There's no question of 'if'," Bradley told him sternly. "The entire place is surrounded by CCTV cameras."

"What's CCTV?" Schuldig asked. He picked up his piece of paper again and began to write the letters 'CCTV'. He got one of the 'C's backwards, but noticed his mistake and beamed at the correction.

"Closed Circuit Television. Look, we can't okay? You shouldn't question my judgement. If I was anyone else you'd be in pieces on the floor by now." Schuldig raised an eyebrow. "I am your superior, as a first year student pretty much every one is your superior, and talking back to your superiors can get you in serious trouble."

"So I see," Schuldig commented wryly. As summer was fast approaching, Bradley had given up on wearing a t-shirt to bed, and Schuldig had seen the words branded on his back more than once. Carefully, from memory, he wrote them out on the paper: 'Pride comes before a fall'. "Prid-e com-ess bef-or-e a fahl," he said carefully. "Prid-e com-es befor-e a fall. Pride comes before a fall." He beamed at Bradley, who smiled despite himself.

"A lesson well learnt," he said softly.

"Can we have sex now?"

Stunned silence.

"What?" Bradley ventured eventually.

"Sex now? During our 'break'?"

Bradley sat down carefully. "No… Schuldig… I don't think that would be a very good idea… at all. Not a good idea. No. No sex." He shook his head sharply. "Why on earth did you even ask?"

"Because I want to have sex with you." To Schuldig it seemed absurdly simple. "We're attracted to each other."

"No. No, we're not. I'm not attracted to you. I'm not attracted to men. We're not going to have sex. Ever." Bradley was flustered. Schuldig looked crushed. "I don't have sex," Bradley said in a strangled voice.

"Why not? You've got everything you need, I've watched you in the shower." Bradley looked up sharply and glowered at the blissfully unaware Schuldig. "Come on, you do find me just a bit attractive." Schuldig studied him, moving closer. "You did," he said uncertainly. "I know you did. You almost thought it. But you keep not thinking it. Like when people don't say things… a secret. It's like you're keeping it a secret. But from yourself." He pressed up against Bradley, who stood up sharply and moved to the other side of the small room. Oh, how small it seemed at this moment, how oppressively small. "How do you do that?"

"Shut up," Bradley muttered. "You're mistaken. I'm not attracted to you. That's why I haven't thought it. You're confused. Of course you're confused, so many thoughts pressing in on you. Yes, confused."

"Who are we talking about?" Schuldig asked, not entirely innocently. "Me or you?"

"You! You've confused me thoughts with someone else's, when they happened to be following similar tracks. And you shouldn't spy on people in the shower!"

Schuldig didn't bother deign to reply to what he felt was an obvious impossibility. He was more than slightly worried about Crawford, though. Why was the man keeping secrets from himself? Didn't he want sex? Especially, why didn't he want to have sex with Schuldig? Schuldig was very attractive, he knew that. Everyone knew that. Except Crawford. Everyone liked having sex with Schuldig. Had… had he changed, since he arrived here? Was he no longer as attractive as before, somehow? Other people still thought he was attractive. Most of the 'teachers' had been perfectly willing to sleep with him. Crawford was just another 'teacher', wasn't he?

"Schuldig?"

"Hmm?" He glanced over at the older man, still thinking hard.

"I think we should get going again. Move on to numbers. Are you ready to do that, or do you want to keep trying with the writing?"

"What ever you like," Schuldig said vaguely. "Have… have you ever had sex?"

"That's not a polite question," Bradley scolded, picking up a child's maths book. "And no, I haven't. I've never particularly wanted to."

"Ah… So-"

"Enough questions. Especially about sex. Come on, we need to start addition today." Bradley put the book in Schuldig's lap, trying to pretend he hadn't noticed the huge erection there.

"What about sex education?" Schuldig asked slyly. "Don't you have to teach me that, too?"

"No. I told you, no more questions. Now, let's start simple: One plus one is?"

"One," Schuldig murmured sultrily.

"No, two," Bradley glared at him. "You know that."

"One," Schuldig pointed at himself, "plus one," he pointed at Bradley, "could be one…" he purred.

Bradley stood up, knocking the books to the floor. He ignored Schuldig and walked out of the room sharply, locking the door behind him. He leant on the wall for a moment, recovering his scattered wits and rebuilding his mental shields. He could feel Schuldig prying, trying to work out why his 'teacher' had left.

"Cold shower…" he murmured under his breath. "Very cold shower."


	16. Adonis

**Chapter Fifteen – Adonis**

It was over a month later. Since that lesson, Schuldig hadn't reiterated his desire for intercourse with Bradley, but the older man was still on edge. Summer was in full swing, and it was a hot one. Schuldig took full advantage of this, wearing as little as possible to keep cool, and the heat seemed to have such an adverse affect on Bradley he was taking up to three cold showers a day to stay cool.

Denial seemed a little pointless now, but Bradley wouldn't let it go. Maybe… maybe he did find Schuldig attractive. But if he allowed one thing to lead to another he'd being to hope again. That comfort, that end to this aloneness, was so tantalisingly close, but he knew he could never have it. The scars on his arm were testament to that.

One hot night, Bradley was lying in bed, trying to ignore the presence of the young an on the other side of the room. Every noise left him more alert than ever, and he was on verge of giving up on sleep altogether when Schuldig spoke.

"Bradley?" he murmured.

"Herr Crawford," Bradley corrected, but there was no bite behind the remark.

"Suppose… suppose there's a monster under a bed. Hypothetically, how would one deal with it?"

Bradley stared at the ceiling. That was quite possibly the most random remark Schuldig had made since his request for sex. "What?" he asked in confusion.

Schuldig leant over, narrowing the space between them. He beckoned for Bradley to do the same. He surprised himself by complying with the unspoken request.

"I think there's a monster under my bed," Schuldig confided. "Are you armed?"

Bradley couldn't help it. He laughed. In the moonlight Schuldig's face was distraught, but Bradley couldn't stop laughing. Schuldig really thought? Yes, yes he did. Schuldig really thought there was some kind of supernatural beast under his bed, lurking in the shadows. Bradley wondered hysterically whether is was one of those monsters with a purpose, like the scissor man to cut off the digits of children who sucked their thumbs, or the phantom sock stealer who made certain you only ever had one of each pair of socks.

"Bradley," Schuldig half-wailed. "Stop it! I'm serious."

"Schuldig," Bradley managed to calm himself down enough to talk. "Schuldig, the only monsters here are the human ones, like Hertz."

"Are you sure?" Schuldig sounded confused. Bradley fought another eruption of laughter, until the implications of the situation hit him.

No one had ever told Schuldig monsters didn't exist. No one had ever been there to comfort him when the curtains billowed in an odd way or the shadows looked like fingers or the floor creaked to sound like feet. No one had ever cared enough to tell him that the only thing people had to be scared of in this world were other people.

"Schuldig?" he said softly. He didn't get a reply. "Schuldig, monsters don't exist."

It felt wrong, being the one to tell him that. It felt wrong having to tell a sixteen year old that at all, but the fact he was only five years older and barely knew him made it so much worse. Here was a young man who'd taken every drug known to man and then some, a man who'd been put through the most terrible physical and mental tortures imaginable, a man who'd sold his body daily from the age of eleven, a man who'd sold his soul to Estet now. And he still believed that there were worse things out there. That scared even the battle-hardened Bradley Crawford Junior.

"Herr Crawford," Schuldig said very respectfully, "I'm not sure I believe you."

"Schuldig, humans are the only intelligent creatures on this planet. Humans are the only evil things on this planet. The only things that will set out to wilfully hurt and destroy you are your fellow beings. Monsters are just figments of the imagination created to ease our consciences."

"I am the most evil thing on this planet?" Schuldig stared at him.

"No! With people like Hertz around, you're barely in the running. He causes pain for the joy of it."

"Why do you think I said I was the guilty one?" Schuldig looked small, nestled in sweat-drenched sheets on the narrow bed. The sheer pathos of his situation threatened to engulf Bradley. "There's so much you don't know, about the things I've done."

"Schuldig?"

"Ja?" Even his voice was small now.

"Would you like to share my bed?" Bradley asked with trepidation. He didn't want Schuldig to get the wrong idea, but he couldn't stand to see the young German looking so miserable. Even Bradley Crawford Senior had let Brad Junior curl up beside him after a particularly violent nightmare. It was what parents did.

"Danke," Schuldig murmured. Bradley felt the warm body press against his side, and he moved closer to the wall to give Schuldig more room. He found himself with a mouthful of fiery hair and a pair of bony arms wrapped themselves tightly around his body. He stroked the hair with one hand, feeling a little awkward. He wasn't a parent, but Schuldig needed one.

"Schuldig?"

"Ja?" The German murmured sleepily.

"This is just for a short while, and in a completely non-sexual manner, okay?"

"I know." Schuldig rested his head against Bradley's chest, nuzzling the chest hair impishly. "Bradley?"

"Uh-huh?"

"What else doesn't exist?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, like Father Christmas, or the Easter Rabbit, or Australia?"

Bradley snorted. "The last one's real," he said with a grin, "but neither of the first two exist."

"Knew it was too good to be true," Schuldig murmured. "Danke, Brad, for this."

"For what?" Bradley wasn't at all sure he liked the abbreviation of his name, but let it slide.

"Letting me sleep here." 

Bradley rested his chin on the top of Schuldig's head, still trying to get comfortable with another person invading his personal space. A thought occurred to him. "This is what you were angling for all along, isn't it? You were just waiting for me to let you sleep next to me."

"Nein," Schuldig sighed drowsily, "that was you."

Bradley didn't get a lot of sleep _that_ night, either.

* * *

Bradley stared at the dossier he'd been handed. Everything Estet had been able to find on Schuldig's past. And it didn't include his name, oddly enough. But still, who knew a simple request would actually get a result, around here?

Schuldig had started taking the 'normal' lessons again, but he was still struggling a bit. He was wiped out at the end of each day, his mental shields barely holding. But he'd still insist on doing more study with Bradley, improving his vocabulary and accomplishing more complicated sums. He'd would never be an A grade pupil, but he was clever and intuitive, and not above stealing the answers from other people's minds.

Bradley was a little suspicious about these late night lessons; especially as Schuldig tended to insist they both got ready for bed before they began. They'd start off on opposite beds, and by the time Bradley declared it was time to sleep Schuldig would usually be nestled against his side, heavy lidded eyes gazing adoringly up at him.

But Schuldig was with the rest of the students now, and Bradley had the room to himself. He started to skim the documents. Most of it he knew already, from hints dropped by Schuldig or rumours circulating throughout the school about the mysterious telepath. What he wanted to know was noticeable in its absence: Schuldig's early life with his family. Several pages towards the end caught Bradley's eye, handwritten in a disturbingly familiar script. They appeared to be forcibly taken from a diary, judging by the apparently personal nature of their contents and the jagged edge along one side.

"Mr May," Bradley murmured, "I'd forgotten you were involved." He could still remember that first day, when the thirteen-year-old Schuldig had asked in broken English for 'Greg'. It seemed the two telepaths had known each other quite well, once upon a time.

Bradley started to decipher the ornate calligraphy, and wasn't impressed with what he found.

I found a boy earlier today. He's a stunning sample of adolescent beauty, and really quite willing. He says he's thirteen, and German, but won't give a name. I am calling him Adonis. He is sharing my hut on the edge of the desert. He seems relieved to have found me. He especially likes Betsy, my little plane.

I find him incredibly desirable. His body is much older than he is, and has been used several times before, but he still retains some of that innocence so looked-for in children. His skin is fair and unmarred, and his coquettish mannerisms are driving me wild. I will keep my distance though. I don't want to get into yet more trouble for this sort of thing.

…

It's as I thought: Adonis is a telepath. Estet will be overjoyed. He told me today, though I knew already. It seems I have been remiss with keeping my shields at their full intensity. He knows just how much I am lusting after him.

He offered himself to me. I've been strong willed up until now, but he told me he wanted me to take him. I was as gentle as I could make myself, but months of pent up sexual frustration have their way of taking over. He has a most pliable tongue.

…

I am trying to help him maintain his shields, but he's not interested. I swear, all this boy thinks of is sex! I am overjoyed, I must admit. Adonis admitted he became a prostitute at eleven, to pay his way out of Germany and through Europe. It's taken him two years to reach my Sahara abode. 

Adonis is calling. He burns terribly in the desert sun, but that does not stop him from wandering around naked. He makes it quite hard for me to keep my mind on anything else, and I think that is the way he likes it!

…

Adonis is gone. He didn't leave a note, but I felt him reach out to me earlier today. He's gone into the desert for some silence. Apparently that was the only reason he came here.

Madame DuBois called, and told me where I would find him, once he'd collapsed. Now I must take Betsy and searched the rolling dunes for a pale body and shock of orange hair. For the first time I find myself hoping he's dressed.

Crawford trembled in anger. To think he had trusted that man, that pervert! He'd seemed so much nicer than the other trained psychics; he'd seemed so much more benevolent. When all he wanted was to have sex with children.

"You're wrong!" Crawford's head snapped up. Schuldig was staring at him. "Greg is a nice guy!"

"He's a paedophile!" Crawford's hand tightened on the paper until his knuckles were white.

"You yourself thought I was sixteen or seventeen, that first day! I remember! And he had restraint! He loved me!"

Crawford stared at Schuldig incredulously. "He wanted your body, your imagined innocence. He only restrained himself because the police would be done on his head like a ton of bricks if they caught him raping a thirteen year old!"

"No!" Tears were streaming down Schuldig's face. "He loved me," he insisted. "I know! I'm a telepath, I know what he thought. He thought I was beautiful and desirable and precious. I was precious!"

"That isn't love," Crawford said scornfully. "It was lust, Adonis."

"He didn't rape me," Schuldig persisted. "He waited! He didn't want to force me! Do you know what that meant to me? I was thirteen. For two years people had taken me as they liked, when they liked. I was just another notch on the bedpost for many. A sex toy. But to him I was a person. I had to be treated gently, so as not to be scared away. No one ever cared whether I was scared before! He was nice to me. And he waited because he didn't want to hurt me or scare me. He wanted me to want him as well. He waited!"

Schuldig stared at Crawford through streaming eyes. "I don't care if perhaps it wasn't love," he said defiantly. "He liked me, and that's enough. And you have no right to go prying through my life like that!" He snatched the dossier and fled, leaving a surprised and confused Bradley sitting on the floor alone, the door swinging back and forth in the breeze.

"I cared if you were scared," he murmured to the empty air. "Remember?"

_And suddenly it all got darker. Urgh. I feel so dirty, writing about Greg like that. And poor Crawford, ne? The closer he comes to acknowledging his feelings for Schuldig the worse the situation between them gets. _


	17. Ice and Fire

**Chapter Sixteen – Ice and Fire**

Guess what occurred to me? Seasons aren't the same all over the world. I know it sounds stupid, but I completely forgot that Australia's winter was in the British summer, etc. So Alz-chan, and any other readers from the Southern Hemisphere, just bear with me, okay? For the purposes of the year division at Rosenkreuz, spring is March to June, summer is July to August, autumn is September to November and winter is December to February. Just so no one's too confused.

There were complaints, when no one down Crawford's hall could get into the bathroom, because Schuldig had jammed the door shut. There were more when the toilet stopped working because the upset teen had tried to flush the dossier down it. When he tried to climb out the window and escape it was the last straw. Schuldig was sent back to the dormitories, and Crawford lost all of his privileges he'd gained as a post-graduate.

Schuldig hated Crawford more than he could put words to. He spent hours plotting ways to kill him. He attended lessons with religious fervour, learning new ways to destroy the American bastard. His mind was consumed with a fire that left him burnt out and exhausted at the end of every day, to tired to care that he couldn't distinguish his thoughts from everyone else's. When darkness took him each night, he welcomed it like a lover.

Bradley wasn't sleeping. He made up excuses, like the fact there was no longer any rhythmic breathing to lull him into a stupor, but the bags under his eyes spoke for themselves. Trapped in Rosenkreuz now, he stumbled about the building like a zombie, not hearing himself as he taught the students, not tasting the food he shovelled into his mouth, not seeing what was going on around him, or, more frighteningly, what was going to happen around him. 

Dressed like a student, eating with the students, sleeping in student quarters, Bradley felt like his life had slipped backwards into the ever-repeating hell that it was to be a student at Rosenkreuz. Any status he had gained through years of obsequiousness was dust on the wind. And he blamed Schuldig with a vehemence he never thought he'd feel for anyone other than his father.

That was it, really. He'd spent years trying to make his father happy, and it had never worked. Now, when he'd tried to keep Schuldig in a healthy, happy, state of mind, he'd failed again. And Schuldig had made certain he'd known he'd failed. A crushing defeat, worse than any juvenile disgrace. He had spent years trying to prove he was good enough, but it came to the crunch, it turned out his father had been right all along: he wasn't. Schuldig resented him as he'd resented his father. And Bradley returned that resentment with equal vigour. If Schuldig was going to hate him despite his best efforts, then Schuldig deserved nothing less than an equally bitter loathing.

They didn't meet. People were careful to arrange that, making certain the now mortal enemies saw nothing of each other as the days and weeks past. Schuldig was wearing himself out, pushing too far, too fast. Crawford was running on empty, the only thing keeping him moving was his bitter pride.

* * *

And months slipped past without meaning. Time was an abstract concept. Schuldig's control over his power grew and he learnt to put up mental shields that kept his minds separate from everyone else's whilst allowing him to still hear them. Crawford earned the respect, slowly, of his peers once more. Worshipping the ground his superiors walked on and coming down like a ton of bricks on his inferiors if they didn't do likewise, his lapse was slowly forgiven as more people can in contact with the burning telepath. When you knew Schuldig, you knew why Crawford hadn't fought to keep him.

Slowly, Schuldig's hatred burnt itself out. He'd never found it so hard to hold a grudge, but occasionally, when he wasn't expecting it, a word or deed would remind him of some similar thing Bradley had done, and it hurt, just a little. The patience the older man had had with him, despite his defeatist attitude. Schuldig couldn't stand that fatalistic approach in others, and would happily beat it out of them, and he wondered why Bradley hadn't done the same to him. The way Bradley had put up with the flirting, despite the fact it made him so uncomfortable. Schuldig had pushed the boundaries, and Bradley had put up with it. The night Bradley had let him join him in bed, because Schuldig was still scared, despite the newfound knowledge that it was an irrational fear. The fact he'd done it because he thought it was the right thing to do. No one else here gave a damn about the right thing.

Crawford's hatred was slower burning, but with nothing to stoke the flame, it too went out with time. As he distanced himself from both the person and the events that had fuelled it in the first place, he could put his anger behind him. He was a rational, cool-minded, logical sort of man, and that just didn't fit with the dark boiling emotion nestled in his chest. He wondered what it would be like if he was to see Schuldig again, but he couldn't foresee that happening in the near future. He found he could separate himself from the base emotions that had inspired both affection and hatred towards the teen.

* * *

Winter crept by and spring sprung upon them. Schuldig's first year ended and his second began, now treated to a top bunk instead of a bottom bunk. Crawford was given his room back, and they started to send him on errands again. However, these were errands of a different sort. No longer playing messenger boy, he was used to ferret out new talents as he had Schuldig. He found he had quite a knack for 'seeing' untrained psychics struggling to control their powers.

The first he brought in on his own was a pyrokinetic from Greece, though he had to spend several nights in the ward. One inspired healer had the presence of mind to remove the 'pride comes before a fall' from his back while he was there. Crawford found he didn't care one way or another, any more. He didn't care much about anything, any more.

In summer, he found three telempaths in Salem, to the personal amusement of some of the other psychics. They were teenaged girls with their own little coven. Unusually, they were still very attached to their families, and Crawford narrowly avoided being picked up for kidnap. It was a struggle, bringing three in at once, and he was duly rewarded. He was given a suite of rooms now, including a private bathroom.

Also in America he found an illusionist, which kept Hertz very happy. Now a much rarer strain of telempath, the illusionist was almost as coveted as Schuldig. Crawford thought it was ridiculous, but he never said as much. Again, they rewarded him, giving him a car, so he could leave Rosenkreuz when he wanted, within reason. Of course, without a salary, he was dependent on Estet for petrol [gas].

On a trip to the East in the autumn, he found a pyrokinetic in Vietnam and two in India, as well as a clairvoyant in Nepal and a Chinese precog. They'd given him a team of assistants by now, and it was the assistants who took the new psychics back to Rosenkreuz while Crawford continued to search for other talent. He picked up quite a tan, as well as a reputation.

He was out of assistants by the time he reached Japan. Unpleasant memories threatened to surface, but Crawford kept them repressed. He had a job to do, and he'd wasted enough of his life bemoaning his father already. He didn't mind being alone in the bustling, overcrowded city of Tokyo, as he faded into the background as just another tourist.

Crawford 'meet and greet'ed several of Estet's clients, including a man who had an alarming resemblance to a koala and a bank corporation. One couple caught his eye in particular, as one of them had red hair more at home in Ireland than Japan. He made some discrete inquiries, based on a hunch, and found out that the Fujimiya's were a happily married couple with two gorgeous children. The photo was particularly endearing.

He'd been there almost a week, on was on the verge of despairing of finding even a single psychic in this metropolis, when a vision so violent it knocked him out hit him as he was crawling out of the tiny bunk that was his hotel 'room'. He woke up mere seconds later, though not without attracting some attention from the other clientele, and he had to force himself not to run as he made his way into the crowded streets. Checking his appearance in a shop window, he started to make his way towards an orphanage he'd checked out the day before. There always seemed to be an assembly of psychics in orphanages and children's home and frequently prisons. Crawford wondered unemotionally whether it was the talents that destroyed family life, or destroyed family life that created the talents. No doubt it had been looked into in the Laboratories in the past.

Hair perfect, glasses shining, creases only in the right places on the thousand-dollar suit, Crawford looked every bit the businessman. Which was why, with ten minutes of entering the back streets and 'slum area', he was attacked for his wallet. He broke the urchin's neck without a thought. When a gang made an attempt on him, he shot three of them before the others fled. Human life meant less and less to him as the days passed. He wasn't part of it any more.

Cowering in the shadows was the boy he was looking for. Huge blue eyes filled with tears studied Crawford intensely, and the other children that had been taunting the child watched as well. Ignoring them, Crawford bent down to look closer at the boy. Yes, this one had power. Estet would reward him for this.

"Nani?" The boy asked in Japanese. Crawford ignored him. Yes, he'd learnt enough Japanese to get by now, but that didn't mean he had to acknowledge these people. A part of him briefly wondered if the boy would come willingly, if asked, and whether that would be kinder and more humane, but the rest of him didn't care any more. If Schuldig had been able to get into his head, he wouldn't have believed that this was the same man as the one who'd shared a bed with him when he was scared and confused. And he would have been right.

* * *

Meanwhile Schuldig was left back at Rosenkreuz, still learning the tricks of the trade. He really began to regret his behaviour towards Crawford, especially when he realised that he could have been in China and India and America and all those exotic places with him had he behaved better. He'd taken one piece of advice to heart, though, and sucked up to the teachers in the only way he knew how, by sleeping with them.

While this ensured him glowing reports to Hertz, it didn't stop him getting into frequent trouble. His talent rendered him invaluable, but his body was seen as a mere vessel. He found himself spending months at a time in the wards, and soon became quite popular with the healers. He developed a reputation of his own.

It was a late September evening when Hertz called him into his office from supper. Surprised and confused, unaware of any recent mischief he'd gotten himself into, Schuldig found himself confronted with a man that still terrified him, despite being bale to shut him out of his mind.

"Schuldig," Hertz smiled predatorily, "we have a new proposition for you."

Schuldig waited patiently, a talent he'd picked up in the last few months.

"Do you remember the Laboratories?" Hertz watched the colour drain from Schuldig's face with a sick glee. "Ja, I thought you might. Now, as your talent is developing, we thought it would be useful for you to undergo a few more tests. We just want to measure what you can do, and see what it is that makes you different from, say, a telempath."

"I can read thoughts," Schuldig pointed out, "a telempath can just read feelings."

Hertz frowned. "If you weren't needed in the Labs I'd send you to the Ward," he muttered. "We need to establish your range, and the delicacy of your power. We also need to establish whether you are an active or a passive. Herr May maintains you are an active telepath, but you have offered us very little proof of that, and to be frank if he is wrong you're not worth the food we give you."

Schuldig blanched at this. It was true, he hadn't tried projecting his thoughts for a long time, and it hadn't occurred to him that might be because he couldn't. Sure, Gregory had picked up on his thoughts when he wanted him to, but Greg was a telepath as well, wasn't he? He hadn't known that then, but when he stole Crawford's dossier he had made a point of reading it. And if Hertz decided they were wasting resources on a passive telepath, no matter how strong, he wasn't nearly as invaluable as Crawford and Gregory had insisted he was.

*Herr Hertz, * Schuldig tried. Hertz's head snapped up and a grimace like smile distorted his features. *I think this can be considered proof that I am an active telepath. I will participate in your research, to find out more about myself. *

"You will participate in our research to help Estet find out more about you to help us find our path to glory," Hertz snapped. Schuldig sighed. Why was it whenever he opened his mouth he put his foot in it? And he hadn't had to even open his mouth this time.


	18. A Year And A Day

**Chapter Seventeen – A Year and a Day**

Schuldig was watching through a one-way glass window as lights and sounds bombarded a young boy, unaware of how the action paralleled Bradley's observation of him, a year and a half ago now. The boy, who looked about seven, but was in fact ten, had dark hair and huge blue eyes. Schuldig wasn't exactly well travelled, but something about blue eyes on a Japanese child seemed a little bizarre to him, but in an exotically delicate way. He wondered whether that was how Greg had seen him.

"Schuldig?" A voice asked, incredulously. He jumped, wondering how on earth anyone could have snuck up on him without his knowledge. He turned and his jaw dropped.

"Crawford?"

The two regarded each other. Crawford had gone up market since he and Schuldig had last met, now wearing a tailored Armani suit like he was born in it. He had new glasses, which complimented his features much better and weren't nearly as scratched as his old pair. Light glinted off the well-polished lenses like a lighthouse on a stormy night. He was tanned now, and his hair was a little longer, but professionally styled. Everything about him oozed 'gentleman' and 'businessman' and, most of all, 'rich man'.

Schuldig, on the other hand, looked more the rebel than ever. His hair had grown several inches, lending it enough weight to stay out of his eyes, for the most part, but making it appear even more unruly and untidy. He'd been thinking of dyeing it for a while now, but within the walls of Rosenkruez it was hard to get hold of any kind of chemical product. He'd grown into his looks, seeming less the lanky teenager and more the self-assured young man. He'd also filled out a little, the bony arms and legs displaying proud muscles, and his chest was as hard as a rock. He walked with the air of one who knows he's God's gift to whoever. Crawford could understand the arrogance; the boy was indispensable to Estet and very attractive to boot.

"Well, this is a turn up for the books. How's… places?" Schuldig waved his hands vaguely. Despite the strict regulations on uniform, he'd managed to get hold of some rather novel items of clothing, including a ratty green jacket and some broken sunglasses. Crawford had a premonition of how those clothes would one day evolve into a much more contemporary, and, overall, Schuldig outfit.

"Good, over all. How's Rosenkreuz?" Crawford made polite conversation.

"Hell, over all. You know how it is." Schuldig flashed him a trademark smirk. "So what's going on here then?"

"I was hoping you could tell me. I found this one in Japan, cowering in an alley." Crawford watched the boy though the glass.

He was sitting impassively on the floor, watching the lightshow without interest. Occasionally, muffled sounds could be heard through the walls, which worried Schuldig slightly, as the room was soundproofed.

"Looks like their testing for epilepsy," Schuldig observed. "You know, like those strobe lighting videos that cause fits? I always wondered, what happens if you do have epilepsy, and you've been watching, say, a television series all the way through, and the final episode's full of flashing lights? Do they make another version of the climax, especially for epileptics, or do you have to rely on other people telling you what happened?" While Schuldig babbled on, he reached out with his gift, peering through the glass walls in his mind that kept 'them' out and him in, looking for someone who knew what was going on. Ah, got it. "They're not really sure what they're looking for. Boy's ridiculously clever, and it's a new brainwashing technique. If it doesn't work, he's just one telekinetic among many, if it does, well, now they've got a way to convert the smart ones."

"You noticed that too? It's depressing the number of graduate with double digit IQs, or less." Schuldig laughed, despite the fact Crawford hadn't been joking. He seemed to have forgotten how to do that. Crawford went on, "I hope they don't break him. He's immensely powerful. I think… I think he's going to be useful, later on."

"I don't like what they're doing," Schuldig confessed. "They intend to keep this up for days, you know. I'm going to keep coming back. I don't know if they're letting him out at all."

"He doesn't seem that bothered."

"And which one of us is the telepath?" Schuldig muttered. Crawford gave him a sharp look. "You noticed something?" Schuldig said suddenly. "We're avoiding it. We haven't spoken since you read those diary entries they stole from Greg May, and we're keeping to nice neutral topics. Talking about the boy. I know how upset you were," he said warningly, "and I know how upset I was. It's been over a year."

"A year and a day," Crawford said impassively. "Time heals all wounds,"

"Bullshit."

"Probably," Crawford conceded. There was no humour, as there would have been if it were Bradley talking. This worried Schuldig. He knew he'd perhaps idealised the memories of his mentor, but he couldn't have strayed that far from the truth, could he? He couldn't touch this man's mind at all, it was like holding ice: it slipped away, but not before it froze you and stung.

"So, I say, what next?" Schuldig continued. "I hated you. Completely and utterly. I guess I'm not going to hurt you, or you wouldn't still be standing here. And you hated me. It was killing you. Everyone thought so." He started to babble, trying to elicit some reaction. "You weren't sleeping, you weren't eating. You hated me, and you missed me. Didn't you? You couldn't stop thinking about me. I possessed your life, your soul. I-"

"Shut up," Crawford said tiredly. And Schuldig did, out of sheer shock. "Yes, there was some ill feeling towards you, but that's all in the past. I've changed."

"I knew it!" Schuldig crowed. "You've turned into an emotionless robot."

Crawford looked a little peeved, which was an improvement on utterly apathetic, but not much. "That's not entirely true," he objected. "It's just, for the job we have to do, I can't afford to be as emotional as you."

"But I can?"

"We all cope in different ways."

"Heh." Schuldig turned to stare back at the window. The boy inside yawned. "You haven't even asked what I'm doing here," he said a little resentfully.

"You're going to tell me," Crawford pointed out.

"Tests. They want to see just how powerful I am. Pretty damn powerful, as it turns out."

Crawford frowned. Something inside him was clamouring for attention, but he'd forgotten how to respond to it. Perhaps Schuldig was right, perhaps he was dead inside. But still, he had been trained to follow his intuition, and something felt very wrong about all this.

"Don't let them know your limits," he warned, cautiously.

"I don't know my limits," Schuldig admitted candidly. "There's some talk now about that cocktail of drugs they found me on. They think it's enhanced my powers. You know, I'm stronger and faster than I ought to be too. That's really confused them."

"Schuldig, this is important. What ever you do for them, keep a little something in reserve. Never give it all you've got. Lie."

"I don't lie." Crawford had Schuldig's attention now, though. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know, but something about this set up smells funny, if you know what I mean. If the worst comes to the worst, we need to be able to surprise them. Don't let them know the full extent of your powers. It'll help if they underestimate us." Crawford was looking distinctly uneasy, and Schuldig was increasingly aware that the man had very little idea of what they were talking about.

"Who are they?" Schuldig asked softly.

"I wish I knew. It's all so unclear. I think it's a long way off, yet." Crawford sighed, his shoulders slumping. "You'll just have to be satisfied with that." He looked at Schuldig closely. "Keep it in mind, that's all I'm saying. It was… nice… seeing you again. Goodbye."

"Auf Wiedersehen," Schuldig said vaguely. It wasn't until after Crawford's footsteps had receded down the corridor it occurred to him to ask who 'us' were, as well.

* * *

Crawford stared around his Rosenkreuz apartment. It not only had a bathroom, but it had a fully fitted kitchen as well. Unfortunately, until they started paying him wages, it would remain an empty kitchen, and he was ravenous. He pressed a hand to his complaining belly and wished his body would catch up with the time difference. It was several hours until supper. Still, the fridge looked better, empty and white. He frowned at himself. He was appreciating the aesthetic austere beauty of an empty refrigerator? He'd been alone too long.

It wasn't huge, as apartments go, but after staying in a Japanese hotel that was little more than a cubby hole (an interesting experience, but not for the claustrophobic) it felt huge. And empty. He mind wandered back to a time when he'd hated that aloneness, that empty feeling. Before Schuldig, when he'd have done anything to have someone to share the burden. Funny, he didn't think he could stand a permanent companion now. Some noisy obnoxious person professing to knowing his every thought and desire, always there, getting in the way, acting like they knew him? No, he'd go mad.

He frowned at himself in a mirror. Speaking of noisy obnoxious people, it had been a shock seeing Schuldig again. He'd grown up a bit, it seemed, gained a little maturity. Rosenkreuz was force-feeding adulthood to the Peter Pan-esque teen. It was a bitter pill, but it was all for the best. Crawford mused on what sort of adult Schuldig would be. Echoes of Hertz resounded in his mind. 

He refused to consider Schuldig's words and their implications. Crawford too had matured, in his own opinion. He had adapted and evolved to suit his new purpose in life. He could kill without remorse, and live without fear. He was his own man, as far as Estet would allow. He was going somewhere, dammit!

The sudden burst of unaccustomed emotion gave Crawford a headache, and he stared at the mirror. Why did it bother him so much, what Schuldig thought? Once up on a time, perhaps, but he was over that immature little crush. Why did he feel like he was in the wrong here, like Schuldig was right to criticise him?

Crawford sighed. Rather than contemplate the fact the his subconscious wasn't letting go of the fact his apartment, his stomach and his life were all empty, he elected to go to bed and try and get some sleep. He was badly jetlagged, and he would be back to his old self in the morning. Well, new self. And he was going to ignore the nagging question of 'why, if he really was going somewhere, wasn't he being consulted on where that was?'

* * *

Schuldig ignored the snivelling of the boy on the bunk beneath his. Crawford was back. His shields had always been good, but now they were impenetrable. Schuldig hadn't even been aware of his presence. Not good.

Did he still hate Crawford? For prying into his private life, yes. For not even bothering to ask Schuldig in the hope he might tell him something of his own free will, yes. For letting Rosenkreuz take him away, yes. For not caring that this was the first time they'd seen each other in a year… Well, no. If Crawford could be bothered to remember that it was exactly a year and a day, that he'd clearly remembered the date when Schuldig had been forced to go back to the dormitories, then surely, surely, he cared just a bit? Or he had, once.

Then there was this matter of the lack of Bradley. Schuldig hadn't known Crawford as long as he'd have liked, but he'd noticed early on that the man tended to file his thoughts under either 'Crawford' or 'Bradley'. Or, as Schuldig like to think of it 'crawfish' and 'baddy'. There wasn't anyone here who could be called good, and the blasé way Bradley had admitted to killing had confirmed this opinion. But now it was just Crawfish. Cold, slimy, emotionless Crawfish.

There was no balance, Schuldig decided, between Bradley and Crawford. Bradley was an okay guy, a little stern, an overachiever, but not a bad sort, overall. He'd been kinda nice to Schuldig, especially with that whole 'monsters' deal, despite the fact that he was clearly very attracted to Schuldig and having him in the same bed must have been absolute torture. Then there was Crawford, who saw people as statistics and numbers to be balanced and shifted and played with until an extra million dollars or so snuck into Crawford's own pocket. He was a guy who had no particular opinions on killing, as long as his suit didn't get dirty. He'd brown-nose his way to the top, and heaven forbid any one should get in his way.

Schuldig rolled over, suddenly uncomfortable. He had a sort of… affection, for Bradley, but dammit if Crawford didn't turn him on. If Crawford was going to the top, Schuldig wanted to be right up there with him. Which right now meant beating him at his own game. Sycophants beware, Schuldig's going to outdo the lot of you to get back in Crawford's good books. Preferably the ones with the disappearing millions. He'd always wanted one of those shiny red phallus-symbolism cars.

* * *

The night passed slowly for both men, but even slower for a certain small boy. Sitting in a room full of flashing and weaving coloured lights and being bombarded with meaningless tones, Nagi was bored. No, he'd been bored after about an hour of this, now he was drowning in ennui and suffocating in tedium. So bored he was thinking up synonyms for bored. And wondering if there were any synonyms for 'synonym'.

A/N: according to the computer thesaurus, there aren't, but it's a pretty bad thesaurus as thesauri go. Huh, 'Thesauri' is actually a word….

Another wave of lights shimmered in an alarmingly predictable pattern. If he could work out what they wanted from him, he'd do it. He'd do whatever he had to, to get out of here.

Naoe Nagi, age ten, watched the lights patiently, waiting for an answer. The scientists got bored first.

* * *

Crawford was eating breakfast when Schuldig plonked a tray down next to him, flashing what he hoped would be a winning smile. It was oddly similar to a smirk.

"What are you doing?" an incredulous Crawford asked.

"Joining you for breakfast," Schuldig said scornfully.

"You're not allowed-"

"You actually haven't changed a bit, you know that?" To Schuldig's surprise, Crawford blushed. He pushed a little further. "Go on, say 'I see' in that speculative monotone of yours. It'll make my day."

"Shut up."

"Oh, I'd forgotten that one! Yes, 'shut up' was part of the staple diet as well."

"You haven't changed either. As incommodious and infantile as ever."

"Oh, but I have. I understood that, which I wouldn't have before." Schuldig smirked, and got on with the task of trying to convince himself he really did want to eat the watery gruel. Crawford's nostalgic acceptance of the grey paste was bothering him. People weren't supposed to feel nostalgic for something that looked like it ought to be used to put up wallpaper, and tasted like it too.

"Stealing information from other people's minds hardly makes you an academic," Crawford said witheringly.

"Sure it does," Schuldig grinned. "To steal from one person is plagiarism, to steal from many is research. Anon said that. He gets quoted a lot, you know."

Crawford winced sympathetically. "Anon is short for anonymous. It means they don't know who said it," he explained. Schuldig grimaced, but suddenly broke into a smile. Crawford stared at him like he'd grown wings.

"That's the Bradley I knew! Shame you aren't still helping teach. My standard's have gone right down." Crawford stared at him. Well, it had been a long time since he'd felt anything like sympathy, and Schuldig did have a knack for arousing it in him. Arousing other things too, but he was above that now.

"You're half way to the end of your time here," Crawford pointed out conservatively. Schuldig looked nonplussed. "The essay," Crawford reminded him.

"Ouch, ja," Schuldig grimace again. "I'd forgotten that. Little help?" He gazed imploringly at Crawford. It was too perfect, really. 

"Maybe," Crawford said evasively, standing up. "Well, it's been pleasant talking to you again. Good to see a familiar face once in a while." And with that, he left.


	19. Speech is Silver

**Chapter Eighteen – Speech is silver**

Just to comment on Schuldig'schoice of viewing: my friend's dad was staying in Germany, and whilst flicking through the channels actually came across a show with a guy with a sparkler taped to his dick whilst talking to her on the phone. He didn't continue watching to find out what happened next. The conclusion we can draw from this: German porn is random. 

That night, Crawford opened the door to his apartment to find Schuldig already there. He was sprawled on Crawford's couch, watching the television. Crawford frowned. German porn. He hadn't even been aware he got porn, and he certainly didn't approve of people watching it.

"This guy's got a sparkler taped to his dick," Schuldig commented. "Can't for the life of me figure out why, but it looks like fun." He smirked up at Crawford as the older man snatched the remote from his and switched the spectacle off. "Aww, I wanted to find out what happened when it burnt down," Schuldig whined playfully. Crawford's face remained impassive. Apart from a single twitch, which he did his best to suppress.

"I assume you want me to help you academically?" Crawford said icily. Schuldig shrugged.

"Wanted to catch up properly, for old time's sake," Schuldig said.

"I see."

Schuldig snickered, and missed the briefest flash of a hint of a tiny smile that almost appeared on Crawford's face. In other words, Crawford's composure was crumbling already.

"Look, you keep going on about this essay, and you're beginning to make me nervous. I can read enough to get by, and I can sign my own name, but I'm still not so good at the whole reading and writing thing in general. More than five letters and I start getting lost. And that twat who's supposed to be teaching is about as quick as the London Underground, if you know what I mean." Schuldig grinned lazily. "So, I figure, since you're back for a bit, and bit of one on one tutoring wouldn't go amiss. And any other one on one activities you might have planned," Schuldig leered. Crawford turned away sharply.

"Until you said that," He said, his back still turned, "I was almost willing to contemplate taking you up on your suggestion. But, I'm afraid, it is still all too obvious you have retained this juvenile physical attraction for me, and until you are willing to accept that we will never partake in any kind of sexual encounter with each other, I'm afraid we can't spend time together."

Schuldig's jaw dropped. "You're bullshitting me," he said incredulously. "There's no fucking way your using me as an excuse to get out of this. So what if I thinking you're fucking hot? You expecting me to jump you or something?" Crawford found he couldn't turn around and face the teen. No, he didn't honestly think Schuldig would try and rape him; the guy wasn't that suicidal. "It's you, isn't it? You just won't admit it. You're scared of what you might do. You're the one with a 'juvenile physical attraction'. You're scared that you'll say 'no sex' and then you'll want it, and you're too proud to go back on your fucking word!" 

Schuldig stood up and walked around so that he was facing Crawford. Crawford folded his arms across his chest, but, some how, it just made him look vulnerable instead of firm. Schuldig fought the urge to punch the inexpressive bastard.

"This is what I never understood about you," Schuldig admitted. "You're attracted to me, I'm attracted to you, but you're so bloody resolute that nothing's ever going to happen. Why? Do you think it's 'wrong' to be gay? Are you scared because you're a virgin? Is it because you think they'll disapprove, and punish you? Is it me?"

"Of course it's not you!" Crawford snapped. "I'd have told you if it was," he said more softly. "Look, Schu, I just don't want to, okay? Don't pry. It's not polite."

"Nor's killing people you've never met," Schuldig told him. "Why don't you want to?" he asked plaintively.

"I thought I just told you to drop it?" Crawford fought the urge to turn his back on Schuldig again. He hated being on the defensive like this, especially when he knew he didn't have a hope in hell of persuading Schuldig to leave the matter alone.

"Why'd you call me 'Schu'?" Schuldig tried a new tack. "I mean, it's a nickname I can live with, though I always fancied 'Schuldig the Destroyer' as a moniker. But I can live with footwear."

A brief smile flickered across otherwise stony features. "Sorry. My mind was elsewhere."

"I said, I like it. Kinda. It's a sign of familiarity…" Schuldig let that hang.

"No, it's not. Well, I am familiar with you, yes, and… it's not. Not in the way you're thinking." 

Crawford was getting more and more uncomfortable. Schuldig decided to amplify that by moving closer. He slipped his arms around Crawford's neck and leant back a bit, giving Crawford a good view of his strongly muscled arms and torso under the tight uniform.

"What happened to the guy who was scared of this guy?" Schuldig asked softly. "Bradley, who didn't like the way he was being desensitised to all this violence, and hated his father vehemently? The guy who enjoyed a joke and was sympathetic towards people like me? The guy who was beginning to acknowledge that he found me attractive and enjoyed my company? Where'd you put him?" Schuldig wheedled gently.

"I'm still that guy, Schuldig. I just had to change to keep up with this life. If you can't accept those changes-"

"I'm still having trouble working out how you have! All that time hanging around the Japanese kid's room taught me a lot. You shot kids, in cold blood, because they were hungry. The guy I knew might not have given them food and money, but he would at least only knocked them out. You snapped a guy's neck with your bare hands." Schuldig pressed closer to Crawford, arms tightening around his neck, coincidentally pinning his hands to his sides. He tucked his head under Crawford's chin. "Was it quick?" he murmured.

"No," Crawford sighed. "But it's all a moot point, isn't it? I'm a different person to the one you knew. You have to let go."

"No. I don't care if it takes forever; I'm going to get that guy back. I liked that guy, and that's saying a lot. I hate most people, but he was calm and quiet and… and he liked me." He pressed a little closer to prove his point.

"I know, Schuldig, but I meant you have to let go. My gun is in its shoulder holster, and I can't remember if I put the safety on. If it goes off it could kill both of us." Crawford bent his neck at an awkward angle to meet Schuldig's gaze. The younger teen's eyes widened.

"Oh! Oh," Schuldig stepped away hurriedly. "You should have said. I'm quite attached to my arms, and, you know, other body parts." Crawford offered him a grim smile as he checked the weapon and put it back in the holster. "Hey, you didn't put the safety on!" Schuldig pointed out.

"I know."

"But, but… Oh. Bastard." Schuldig glowered at him. "There are other ways of keeping me away, you know."

"Really? I wasn't aware of that. Pray tell, what are these ways?" Schuldig's eyes bore a hole between Crawford's. The smarmy, conceited, supercilious tone was just bordering on a little too much.

"If there weren't so many fucking rules about fucking harming your fucking superiors I'd fucking do you, you know that?" Schuldig spat. "I try to be nice. I try to be pleasant. I even do as you ask. I swear I hate you right now. You make Hertz look like Mr Touchy-feely. What's your childhood trauma? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Crawford ground out, "is wrong with me. I suggest you look in a mirror if you want to see someone with problems."

"Oh, that's so witty. So suave and sophisticated and civilised," Schuldig mocked.

"Sarcasm is a defence employed by those who know they're about to lose," Crawford smirked.

"You must have been pretty confident of your own demise earlier then," Schuldig retorted, winning the round. "I'm going to leave now. I hope my visit made you happy. I'd hate to think I'd wasted my time here." Schuldig spun on his heel and strode towards the door, chin up, shoulders back, head held high, the picture of deportment. The overall superiority was somewhat marred when he slammed the door hard enough to make the paint flake away from the walls.

Crawford sat down and poured himself a glass of wine. And then another. And a couple more. Plus another few. And so on…

* * *

Schuldig could see Crawford, sitting on the other side of the room. The man was pointedly ignoring him, and Schuldig knew the best way to get his attention would be to sit down with him again. Once he had that attention, he might even be able to make amends.

But Schuldig had a rapidly burgeoning sense of pride, and for once he was right when he felt Crawford owed him an apology. If the guy couldn't accept that everybody had feelings, including himself, he would do himself a mental injury. But it wasn't going to happen in a hurry, and Schuldig didn't feel like waiting for Crawford to have a full frontal lobotomy while his wallpaper paste went cold. Or possibly warmed up. It was hard to tell which had been the original intention of the 'chef'.

Scanning the room, Schuldig caught a familiar thought pattern as others might spot a familiar face. In a corner, on his own, the tiny Japanese boy was curled over his own bowl of gruel. As Schuldig approached, he was amused to see the kid had to kneel on the bench to reach the table.

"Guten Tag!" Schuldig hailed him heartily. The boy almost fell off the bench. "My name is Schuldig. What's yours?"

Wide blue eyes stared into Schuldig's. The boy shook his head, signifying that he didn't understand.

"Do you speak English? German? French? Anything apart from fucking Japanese?" Schuldig asked hopelessly. He had no idea what the kid was thinking, which was a novelty, but the general pattern of the thoughts indicated distress and confusion. Schuldig absorbed the confused Japanese thoughts, and tried to work out how to make the child understand.

Eventually, he gave in and submitted to the tried and tested technique. He pointed at himself. "Schul-dig," he said slowly. Then he pointed at the boy.

"Na-gi," the boy said, equally slowly. Schuldig got the impression he was being gently mocked. He didn't particularly mind.

He pointed to the breakfast. "Scheisse," he said solemnly. 

A smile flashed on the small boy's face. "Shit," he said in English. Schuldig cracked up.

"Why is it people always learn to swear first? Corrupting young minds. Okay, okay, real name: wallpaper paste."

"Name wall paper paste," Nagi repeated. Schuldig shook his head. Sure, it would be a long and thankless task, at least until he worked out how to mime 'danke', but it would keep him amused for at least a day.


	20. But Silence is Golden

**Chapter Nineteen – But Silence is golden**

The news came as an unpleasant blow to two men in particular, but the aftershocks were felt throughout Rosenkreuz. Gossip and rumour and hearsay rippled throughout the student body, and knowing glances were exchanged and acknowledged. No one said it aloud, but every one knew why he came.

Heresy, minds whispered to one another. 

A telepath, the sensation pooled from thought to thought like a diverted stream.

Bradley Crawford, the silence screamed.

"Bradley Crawford," Hertz murmured to himself, "well, it wouldn't surprise me."

"How long have you had something against him?" Madame Dubois asked nervously.

"Oh, I always suspected this. He's too clever, too power hungry. Tell me exactly what you saw," the German demanded again.

"It's a long way off, and not certain," Madame Dubois reiterated, but Hertz waved this aside. "The summoning will go awry, and the elders will die. And he will play a central role."

"Do you suppose he kills them himself?" Hertz asked mildly, playing with a bone pen. "It would be a bit out of character, but greed can make men do strange things."

"Non, I doubt it. It is quite possible he is defending them. Of course, it all may never come to pass."

"Exactly. We are here to prevent it. Give me an excuse, Jacqueline, a single excuse. He hates me, and the feeling is more than mutual."

"But why? What did he ever do to you?"

"Some things are better left unsaid. Let me say this, though, you are the only person who can answer that question with any certainty." Hertz smiled and signed a death warrant with a flourish. The finger-bone pen bobbed erratically.

"'Pre-emptive strike', the most dangerous words since 'witch!'" Jacqueline bemoaned her colleague's enthusiasm. "So, when will Monsieur May arrive here?"

The red 'ink', already fading to brown, lay on the cheap paper in scribbled loops, reading as a woman's name forced on to an unfortunate boy child. Above it, in neat, ordered rows of stocky black print, was the name of the person whose life depended on the word of one man…

… Crawford opened his eyes. His name, Mr May's name, Herr Hertz's name. He lay in the cool white sheets, staring up at a cool white ceiling, trying to think cool white thoughts.

An inquisition. His mind raced, and he fought to control it. If Mr May had already arrived, he was as good as dead. Oh, he had been thinking very heretical thoughts recently. He'd learnt to shield amazingly well, at least according to Schuldig, but if there was a single chink… Perhaps Schuldig had been lying? Perhaps Schuldig, furious at being rejected, had pried open his mind and gone to the board of Governor's, demanding that Crawford be punished. Crawford could see that kind of vindictiveness in the young man, though he'd always believed that if Schuldig wanted revenge he'd do it himself.

Crawford moved slowly as he got out of bed, trying to shake the feeling of impending doom. An Inquisition.

"No one expects the Spanish Inquisition," a voice said almost chirpily, but with a hint of malice. Crawford spun around. Schuldig was leaning in the doorway. He wolf whistled.

Infuriated, Crawford grabbed at the sheets and sat down on the bed again. Schuldig sauntered over. 

"What the fuck are you doing here? Come to gloat?" Crawford snapped, following his earlier line of thinking.

"You wish," Schuldig smirked. "Greg's coming. You are in such de-ep shit."

I can shield, Crawford declared inwardly.

"Not when you're this agitated," Schuldig observed. "And you are going to be way out of your depth by Friday. Do you even know how they go about these things?"

"What do you mean?" Crawford asked grumpily. "Mr May will come, scan my mind, and find nothing. There's nothing to find."

"Like hell there isn't," Schuldig laughed cruelly. "Look, as the resident telepath, I've done these things myself. First you get the poor sap suspected of treason. It doesn't take much, a rumour, the word of a telempath or seer, a funny look, whatever. Then Hertz has a go at them, maybe even puts them in hospital. It depends what they're suspected of. If they think there's a plot, which they do with you, then the kid is kept alive and intimidated until the 'fess up, even if they've got nothing to confess to. 

"But, see, you've been beaten in the past. So that won't work, and they know it. They know you. Next step, telepath. As you think, a quick scan. But they know about your shielding. The telempaths complain you're like a black hole, but I don't think so. You've just got a wall where most people have glass, and some only have fences."

Crawford frowned at him.

"See, everybody's thoughts are kept in their heads in glass boxes," Schuldig explained vaguely. "Most of the time, it's one way glass, so I can see in but they can't see out. But passives, it's two way. And me? I don't have any glass. I can put things on the other side of the glass too. Inside the glass, some people have wooden crates of their most repressed memories. Pretty easy to break into. But you? You're like one of Rosenkreuz's walls, an unsurpassable barrier. But I know all the secret passages," Schuldig smirked. "We both know that."

"So what happens to me?" Crawford demanded impatiently. "If they can't see in…"

"They find a way to knock down the walls. You're not the only one with walls, you know, though for a lot of people it's more like clouded glass. You can get impressions of what's-" Crawford frowned, and Schuldig fought his way towards getting to the point. "Fine. They knock them down. If they can't do it using mere telepathic pressure, they traumatise you."

"Rape," Crawford guessed correctly. "How do you know all this? I'd have heard if you'd got into this kind of trouble."

"You didn't listen. I'm the resident telepath," Schuldig said softly.

Crawford looked ill. He didn't really want to ask, but he had to know. "Do you rape them or does somebody else and you just hang around near by?"

"It depends," Schuldig told him.

"I see."

They sat in silence. After a while, Schuldig got up and left, his request unrequested. Crawford didn't spare a thought for what had brought the young man there in the first place. He was too frightened. Eventually, he got up and poured himself a glass of wine to steady his nerves, then another to relax, then a third because by that time it seemed like a good idea, and by the seventh he was mutely toasting death and looking for another bottle.

* * *

"Help me, Nagi, they're going to kill him," Schuldig dragged the Japanese boy away from his accustomed corner in the courtyard. Nagi's huge eyes just stared up at him. "Mein gott, he's going to die. They're going to rape him, Nagi, and mindfuck him, and destroy him. They might even not kill him, once he's like that. He won't survive it. Not with those walls. Mein Gott, Bradley, what are you planning?"

"Nani?"

"Shut up," Schuldig said brusquely.  "What am I going to do? Answer me, Nagi! How do I help him? Oh scheisse, Greg's coming here. What do I say to him? Do you think he'd listen if I asked him to go easy on Bradley? What sort of questions would he ask if I told him to? Mein gott, Bradley…" Schuldig trailed off miserably. Nagi still looked utterly blank, but nodded obediently. Schuldig patted him on the head like some small dog.

Schuldig slumped against a filthy brick wall. Nagi hovered nervously. The small boy was covered in bruises, but they were fading now. Those who had picked on him had learnt the hard way that he wasn't entirely in control of his talent yet. After the first death, the bullying suddenly slackened off. Schuldig wondered vaguely whether Nagi understood what had happened, what he'd done, or whether no one had taken the time to explain to him that he'd killed someone. Schuldig got the impression that Nagi wouldn't care.

The green jacket was getting covered with some hybrid of mildew and mud, turning its own distinct shade of sewer-brown. Schuldig shrugged it off carelessly and placed the broken sunglasses on it, looking more like any other cloned student. The sky was a dingy yellow, and storm clouds loomed overhead, piling on one another to tower over the institute. Nagi hated this kind of weather.

"What am I going to do?" Schuldig moaned again. "I hate him, Nagi, but I'm going to put my arse on the line to save him. It's hard to hate dead or insane people."

Nagi only understood about four words in the entire short speech, but he knew Schuldig well enough to guess the rest. Schuldig-sama, he thought in a language that Schuldig couldn't understand, you want him alive because you love him, not because you hate him. You just hate that you love him.

"I wish you could talk," Schuldig sighed. "Well, you know, Deutsche. Or English. Or anything but fucking Japanese. I mean, you're ten, so I wouldn't expect any particularly useful advice, but you seem pretty smart." Nagi stood stock still, listening as expected. It was as if, somehow, he was supposed to learn all these languages just by listening to them. Well, that was how babies learn, but Nagi was old enough to need teaching.

"I wish we could leave," Schuldig sighed. "You, me, Bradley… almost had a chance, if I'd stuck with him the first time. But this planet isn't big enough any more." He looked utterly dejected. "We're all going to die, Nagi. I watched that vision. She only noticed Bradley, but I've observed a few of his. We're right in the thick of it too. If they think they can prevent it, we'll all die, no matter how invaluable."

Nagi couldn't say a word.


	21. Shadows without Substance

**Chapter Twenty – Shadows without Substance**

A/N: I've been looking forwards to this and the next chapter since before I started writing this damn fic. Lots of shounen ai, and even more suspense. Why did I make myself (and you) wait so long? Hang on, how'd this fic get so long? 

It was Wednesday night. Schuldig had been driving himself crazy all week, and Nagi with him. Eventually it was Nagi who came up with a plan, despite still being partially unclear as to what was going on at all. It was a simple plan, and to Schuldig's taste. All that remained was to consult Crawford, and they'd be off. Okay, it needed a little more refining, but they had two days until Mr May arrived, and it was not the sort of plan to have in the forefront of your mind with a telepath around.

Part of Schuldig still pined for the English man. He wanted to stick around and try to reignite the fires that had convinced him that coming here would be a good idea. If Greg loved him, then everything would be fine. Somehow.

Oh, he knew it wasn't true. He knew that no matter what Gregory felt for him, he'd still hate everything that would happen to Crawford, and he'd still be here. But part of him wanted to believe that Greg would take him back to the Sahara, and they'd be alone and happy. Two telepaths in each other's arms, unmolested by Rosenkreuz or Estet or the rest of the world.

Schuldig stopped sharply in the middle of a corridor. He was going to see Crawford. He was thinking about Greg. Why did the two combined make him feel like he was living up to his name?

He glanced down at the bottle in his hand. Well, it had seemed like a good idea. He'd seen enough similar bottles in Crawford's apartment. He couldn't read the label, but the general impression he'd got was that it was good. Hopefully Crawford would think so too. It seemed like a fair enough conciliatory gesture, a bottle of wine and a plan to save his sanity, but what if it wasn't enough?

Schuldig was aware that saving his own skin wasn't the only motivation here. As much as Greg, Bradley was idealised in Schuldig's mind, the young man who had fought for him and cared for him, in a cold, distant sort of way. Schuldig knew that the person who had done that for him was gone, partly due to his own behaviour – no, not partly, mostly – but he cherished the hope that at least some part of him could be convinced to reinhabit the shell of a man that was Crawford. Of course, if he couldn't have Bradley, he'd still fight for Crawford. Damn, he was sexy. Like a comic book villain, like the devil incarnate, seducing Schuldig for his evil machinations and never giving a damn about him. Okay, so the machinations probably weren't all that evil, but Schuldig couldn't see Crawford being denied anything.

Another part of him rejected all of this. If Crawford didn't want him, why fight? Schuldig could have any other person in the institute, and it was only the fact that Crawford was so deliciously unattainable that made Schuldig want him. Sure, he might have liked Bradley, but Crawford made himself difficult to like, and it wasn't worth the effort, really.

"Are you ever going to get here?" A familiar voice complained. Schuldig stared up the corridor. Crawford was slumped in his own doorway, watching him. "I had a vishion of you arriving several minutesh ago," he informed the teen.

Schuldig followed Crawford into his apartment. The room was quite dark, lighted by a single candle on a small table. Next to it stood an empty bottle, and another one was poorly concealed underneath the table. Crawford sat down carefully, and turned to watch Schuldig.

"I'm not going away," he enunciated carefully.

"We could, though. Nagi's bloody powerful. The three of us combined? They wouldn't be able to lay a finger on us. You'd see them coming, I'd know what they were planning, and Nagi could destroy them. He really doesn't mind."

"I know, Schuldig. Sit down," Crawford seemed to have sobered up during Schuldig's brief speech. Schuldig pulled up a chair.

"Bad things are going to happen, Bradley. You won't survive them intact," Schuldig warned. "And you're going to take me and Nagi down with you."

"But I can make them less bad. It's all subjective, you see."

"No. I don't. They're going to rape you. Greg is going to shove his cock where the sun don't shine and those walls in your head are going to shatter. How the fuck are you going to make that less bad?"

"Therein, you have the answer," Crawford smiled triumphantly, to Schuldig's utter confusion, and poured both of them a glass of wine. "I know, you think I'm drunk, and it's true, but I'm getting used to it." The slurring was gone from his voice, and Schuldig wondered whether Crawford had been faking it for the security cameras.

"That's not a good thing," Schuldig down the entire glass absentmindedly. "Alcohol's as much as drug as any other." He looked strained. "Why won't you let me help?"

"But I am, you see. You are the most vital part of my plan. I know I wouldn't even consider this sober, so I'm asking you now, but we'll wait until I'm no longer drunk to do it. I won't go back on my word, no matter how drunk I am when I make it." Crawford poured himself another glass, and glanced questioningly at Schuldig. Schuldig shook his head and dug a bottle of beer out of a pocket of the recently washed jacket. Crawford looked amused. "Remind me to ask how you get hold of all this stuff at some point," he grinned. "I never managed it."

Schuldig shrugged eloquently. "So what's this plan?"

"Not yet. You still think I'm rapidly descending into alcoholism. How are my shields?" Crawford waited patiently while Schuldig probed his mind.

"I can't find any cracks," Schuldig smiled, "but on Friday-"

"This isn't about Friday, it's about now. How are yours?"

"I don't have any," Schuldig said expansively. "But don't worry, no one has the faintest idea what I'm thinking. Too much interference."

"Good, good. I made an interesting discovery while on my travels. I was lent a passive telepath, to help me find certain charges. You see, it's much harder to read someone's mind while they're drunk, and what coherent thoughts they do form are generally nonsensical." Crawford looked pleased with himself, and poured out yet another glass of wine.

"No," Schuldig said.

"No what?" Crawford leant back and sipped demurely on the burgundy liquid.

"It's not true. I can read the mind of a drunk person easily. Sure, it's fuzzy, but it's all there." Schuldig stared at him sadly.

"But you are the most powerful telepath on the planet, my dear," Crawford smiled at him condescendingly. "And tell me, do you find it easier or harder to find out who is thinking, when they're drunk?"

Schuldig looked marginally impressed. "I hadn't noticed that. You're right, it's harder to tell. By the way, you know what they're bringing you in for, right? A vision Frau Dubois had."

"I didn't actually. I assumed some passive had credited me with some heretical thought, or Hertz was just in a snit," Crawford looked contemplative, swirling the wine in the glass around. At first it looked gentlemanly and suave, then it slopped over the edge and he looked like a rather tipsy prat again. His glasses were crooked. "Shit."

"Tell me what you want, Bradley. I'm not going to sit here all night. Unlike some, I do have a curfew." Schuldig looked impatient, but he poured himself another glass of wine and sat back, expectant. He took a sip, fighting to keep from screwing his face up.

"I want to have sex."

Red droplets misted between them in a burgundy spray, hanging in the air like a spurt of blood for a brief moment, during which both men appreciated their beauty in an abstract sense, and drenching Crawford's navy blue suit.

"You spat on me," he said peevishly.

"Holy shit!" Schuldig yelped. "Mein gott, Bradley, don't just say stuff like that! Don't fucking play with me," he growled. Schuldig had not so much leapt to conclusions as launched himself by rocket like a cartoon character to crash squarely into them. "I don't like to be toyed with. It's petty, Crawford. Sure, I said the same to you, once, but if you can't let that go… I was serious, Bradley, it's not nice to take the piss like that-"

"Don't you want to have sex with me?" Brad asked, face a picture of rejected misery. If he had been sober, it would have merely been a picture, displayed to convince Schuldig he was serious, but he was drunk enough to let his feelings show, whilst sober enough to know it would help his cause. Inside, he was hurt. He'd never expected Schuldig not to believe him. It was strange, and painful.

"That's my fucking point! I knew you could be cruel, but it's fucking sadistic to… mock… oh." Schuldig stared at him. "Not a joke."

"Not a joke." Brad watched him carefully, tying to work out what Schuldig's eventual reply would be. Schuldig was frowning, and Brad's heart sank.

"Absolutely serious." Schuldig didn't ask questions, he just thought aloud. He was still struggling to take it in.

"Perfectly so."

"Us? You and me? Sex? The act of sexual intercourse? Holy shit." Schuldig found himself flung back and forth between overjoyed ecstasy and the terror of hope. And deep apprehension. There was no way Bradley would feel the same tomorrow, hang over and all. Really, no point hoping. "Really you and me?" he asked in a small voice.

"Yes, Schuldig. When I'm sober, and can't back out – don't let me back out, will you? – you and I will have adult, consensual sex." Crawford reached out and squeezed Schuldig's shoulder amiably. "I think you are a very attractive man, Schuldig. I know you feel the same way about me. Think about it: I'm still a virgin. Of course rape is going to scare the shit out of me. That's why it's the first thing they thought of. But if I can get used to the idea of sex with another man, then perhaps it will have less of an effect than they hope. And you can tell me whether my shields are holding, and stuff."

Schuldig was vaguely amused at hearing Brad utter the phrase 'and stuff', a very un-Brad phrase, but the foreboding kicked in. "Brad, even I fear rape. I've been having sex since I was eleven, I've been selling my body to anyone who'd ask, and rape is still one of my greatest fears. It's a nice plan, but you don't understand enough." It felt… wrong, to be the one in control, the one in the know. It also bothered him the currently the aspect of the situation he found strangest was him explaining something to Brad, rather than the nature of what he was explaining.

"Gregory May, Esquire, doesn't like rape. He hates the discipline techniques here. If I act willing, then he will be gentle. I want you to make me able to be willing." Brad tugged on Schuldig's shoulder and pulled him over, so that Schuldig was half crouched next to Brad's chair. "Let's face it, I want this, you want this. But I won't let myself do it. Now, I have the perfect excuse."

"You know, we could all run away then have lots of sex," Schuldig said hopefully. "That's a good plan too."

"I've invested too much in staying here, Schuldig. It's too late." Brad tugged and pushed on Schuldig until he had him carefully positioned. Schuldig found himself curled in Crawford's lap, arms around his neck to keep steady, feet resting on the table. "Schu, please. I trust you. You're the only one I can say that about. It's up to you, Schu. Will you?"

Schuldig found himself staring into soft brown eyes. He brushed a few strands of hair from them, and kissed Brad, very gently. He could taste the wine, a sharp reminder of how fleeting all this bliss would be, and how bad it could feel afterwards. He had everything he wanted, but it felt like a shadow of everything he could have. At that moment, Schuldig decided to spend the rest of his life looking for what cast that shadow, and having that instead. Brad wanted power and control, Schuldig wanted Brad.

Schuldig pulled back, licking his lips. "You're the seer," he murmured in his best sultry voice, "what do you think?"

Brad's arms curled around his waist, cuddling him closer. "I trust you," he told Schuldig sincerely. It was just a shadow, but it was a sign that there was definitely something there to cast it. There's no smoke without fire, and no shadows without substance.

I love this chapter, even though it didn't turn out exactly as I planned. So sue me, I'm inordinately proud of that last line. ^_^ Oh yes, and the suspense. ^_^ I'm evil. I want to hear you beg. Mwahahaha… 


	22. Breakfast at Crawford's

**Chapter Twenty-One – Breakfast at Crawford's**

I'm going to make you wait a bit longer. Evil, aren't I? 

Brad had a hangover. It was coming to be a regular occurrence. He had a suspicion that the hangover was going to be the least of his problems today. On his bedside table were a glass of water and a handful of aspirin, laid out the night before not so much a result of a vision as common sense, and a yellow post-it note stuck to the glass. It read 'Today you are going to have sex with Schuldig. You can't go back on your word.'

Brad read it with a grimace. He hadn't needed the reminder, but it did make it more real, some how. Downing the aspirin and water, he climbed out of bed and wandered into the main room. Asleep on the couch was Schuldig.

Brad frowned. He couldn't remember going to bed last night. He could remember Schuldig kissing him, and lots of flirting and touching and general 'acclimatisation', as Brad now convinced himself it had been, but the actual going to bed… Schuldig shivered. Brad poured himself a bowl of museli and watched the younger man sleep. He was aware that had Schuldig fallen asleep first, and Brad put him on the sofa, he'd have covered him with a blanket. So, logically, Brad must have fallen asleep first.

Schuldig yawned. "Kippers," he said.

"Kippers?"

"'Gotta have 'em in Texas, everyone's a millionaire'. Or something like that."

"Quite."

"So, when'd you get to quit the dining hall?" Schuldig rolled off of the couch and crawled across the floor, hair sticking out like a porcupine that'd had an electric shock. "Coffee…" he growled.

Brad smiled, and poured them a mug each. Schuldig used the table leg to pull himself up and seated himself opposite Brad. He managed to down the entire mug, then yelped as his throat caught fire. Brad watched him with amused detachment, noticing that he couldn't see Schuldig's eyes behind the firewall of hair. It seemed Schuldig was having a similar problem, as he kept brushing it out of the way only to have it collapse back in front of his eyes again.

"I know," he said before Brad could comment, "I look like cousin It. Do you have any idea how many sexual favours I have to exchange to get enough hair spray to tame it? And then it goes all sticky and clumps together and it's just not pleasant, you know? Umgh, more coffee." He got up and made his way to the percolator, bumping into things on the way.

"Caffeine is addictive, you know," Brad smiled. "But after years without it in that canteen, I know how you feel."

Schuldig yanked the entire machine out of the socket and dumped it on the table, and grabbed several more mugs. He filled all of them, placing them in a row in front of him.

"Mine," he growled possessively when he saw Brad looking. "So, seriously, how'd you get an allowance?"

"They think I'm going to die," Brad smiled, "and they can afford to give a dead man a pittance."

"We'll show them. You remember last night?" Schuldig asked suddenly, terrified that Brad would have forgotten and the whole thing would be off. He hadn't realised just how much he'd wanted it until it was offered.  It was like the coffee, in that respect, which Schuldig was jealousy hoarding.

"Yes. I'm not going to go back on my word, Schuldig. Just, don't get your hopes up, okay?" There was a deep sympathy in Brad's voice, which unnerved Schuldig. It was new, and reminded him more of Bradley than Crawford. "It's just one night."

Schuldig smirked. "That's what you think," he grinned. "Let me tell you, once you've had Schuldig, you don't want nobody else."

"Double negative," Brad frowned. "We really do need to work on your grammar. I suppose your spelling is still equally dire?"

"More so," Schuldig grinned. "You don't speak spellings. At least I get to practice the grammar stuff."

"Haven't you got lessons today?" Brad hinted.

"I'll skip."

"What?" Brad stared at him, horrified. "I can't sleep with you if you're in the ward."

"Cool it," Schuldig said, secretly flattered by Brad's self-motivated concern for his body, "I'm indispensable, remember? It's just me and Greg left. Besides, I get to miss half the lessons anyway. I'm too skilled with weapons and unarmed combat, and there's no one who can actually train me in my gift. So, since you're practically on the teaching staff, you get to spend the day teaching me stuff, like we used to."

"Do you miss that?" Brad asked abruptly.

Schuldig considered. Shyly, he looked up at Brad, "Yeah, I guess. Sometimes."

"You miss me," Brad murmured.

Schuldig nodded.

Throughout Rosenkreuz, the sounds of a new day were beginning to arise. There were faint moans and groans from the other inhabitants of Brad's corridor, the sound of banging pipes as almost all of the showers in the place came on at once, birds singing outside of the compound, and the first early morning screams from the Laboratories. Schuldig drank his coffees and Brad finished his damp cardboard-like museli. 

"So, what are we going to do today?" Schuldig asked.

"Well, I'll have to inform people that you're going to spend the day in one-on-one tuition, and that that was what I summoned you here last to discuss. You're lucky I'm not required to do voluntary work today. Then, we will actually do some work." Brad smirked at the crestfallen look on Schuldig's face.

"No day-long foreplay?" he asked regretfully.

"No." Brad frowned suddenly, "I thought you'd have rather got straight to the sex? I thought that that was what most men liked."

Schuldig gave him a scornful look. "'Most men?'"

"I see."

Schuldig chucked at Brad's choice of phrase. "I was a prostitute, Brad. Most guys don't want foreplay, so it's always been straight to the sex. Except Greg, who convinced me he cared by drawing out the foreplay until I was absolutely certain I wanted to." Schuldig held up a hand to forestall Brad's objections. "I know, you think it was just lust, and he didn't care a bit. May or may not be true. Beside the point. I cared about him."

"So, you equate caring with foreplay?" Brad asked rhetorically.

"If I knew what 'equate' meant," Schuldig grinned. "Remind me to go and find Nagi during the break. He needs to know the plan is off. Do you know how to say that in Japanese?"

"No, but I can get you a Japanese to German dictionary."

"Fine, do you know how to say that in German?" Schuldig joked. "Teach me to read my language, and I'll teach you to speak his."

"Why?" Brad looked perplexed. "Of what use is he to us? He's just another telekinetic."

"Ah, see, I've been eavesdropping on Frau Dubois's visions. Me, you, Nagi, and some other chap. That's why they haven't just killed you. They need to know who else might be involved and whether it might happen without you. Besides, you have no idea what that kid is capable of."

"If I wanted a telekinetic, I could find an experienced one-"

"He caused an earthquake when he was eight."

"-Or I could go for raw power and choose him. What else can he do?" Brad leant forwards, suddenly interested.

"Dunno. Don't understand a word he says, or thinks. He's fucking smart though. Learnt more German than I have."

"So can most birds, Schuldig," Brad said disparagingly. "Speaking of which, let's start now." He put the mugs and bowl in the sink and started to search the cupboards for pen and paper. A noise distracted him, and he turned around. Schuldig was sprawled across the couch, watching television.

"Schuldig…" Brad said in a warning tone.

"Look, real people, and no voices!" Schuldig beamed at him. "I like TV!"

Crawford sighed, and sat down next to him. "Fortunately, it's mostly kids shows in the morning, and most of them are educational. Come on, let's find a 'schools' channel."

Schuldig looked shell shocked. "You're going to let me watch television?" Schuldig kissed him suddenly on the cheek. "You're a great guy!"

"Really?"

"You'll be an even better guy if we can 'snuggle'," Schuldig purred suggestively.

Brad opened his mouth, and stared at the television screen. "Not while Sesame Street is on," he said slowly. "That's both sacrilegious and creepy."

Schuldig stared at the disproportionately large puppets. "I do see your point."

The day progressed, Schuldig learning that a blue whale's penis is six feet long, that the Americans originally thought everyone in Monty Python was gay, that yak's milk is pink and that Brad's ears were sensitive in the best possible way.

* * *

Nagi sat silently through the day's lessons, understanding more than he had yesterday but less than he would tomorrow. He was ignored, mostly. He could just about read and write, in his own language, but they didn't care.

"I'm a weapon," Nagi sighed to himself. "A blunt instrument. My purpose is to smite those who stand against Estet." He stood in the courtyard and kicked at the wall. "A tool. I don't want to be a tool!"

"Would you rather be a cog?" a sultry voice purred. Nagi's head snapped round. Someone spoke his language? Where was Schuldig?

"I would like to be me," Nagi said in a small voice, looking wildly around for his usual protector. Until he knew more about this guy he wanted someone around to explain that any attack he made was provoked.

"Not going to hurt you," the voice said, amused. Stepping out of the shadows came a young Indian man with a turban offsetting the austere uniform. A telempath, Nagi guessed correctly. "Don't be afraid. My name is Rammi."

"How come you speak Japanese?" Nagi stuttered. "Why haven't you come to me before?"

"I learnt Japanese so I could speak to you, Nagi. It's been an awkward process." Rammi smiled, bright white teeth glowing in contrast with his darker skin. He caressed Nagi's cheek. "You are entrancing, you know that?"

"You speak Japanese very well, if you haven't been learning long," Nagi told him, wishing all the more fervently for Schuldig.

"I am a fast study, and I have a knack for languages." Rammi gave him another disarming smile. "Am I making you uncomfortable? I am sorry. I have been trying to get you alone for a long time now, so we can talk. Your German companion does not take kindly to strangers viewing what he considers to be his property."

"Property?" Nagi frowned. Did Schuldig really think of him like that?

"Yes. He can be… shallow, I suppose is the word. You are a stunning boy, Nagi, and I think the two of you have a lot in common. But also, you have a great deal of raw power. He wishes to worm his way into the respects of Crawford-san, who has a great deal of ambition. He will give you to him, to be used as a weapon, as you clearly do not wish to be." Rammi ruffled Nagi's hair friendlily. 

"If I could speak German…" Nagi trailed off, "it wouldn't make an ounce of difference," he finished with a sigh, seeing the look on Rammi's face. "So, what is different about what you want?"

"I want to be your friend, Nagi. We all need friends here. Yes, your power is useful; you could be a great protector to me and those like me. And as I am the only one who can speak Japanese, it is in your interest to cultivate this friendship as well. I am your passport to greater recognition, Nagi."

"I've seen what happens to those who get recognition," Nagi growled. "They die. Painfully."

Rammi conceded this with a grin and a shrug. "You do have a point. Okay, I can help you learn. You want to learn, don't you? Your gift frightens you, you understand nothing of what's going on, and you are terrified of getting into trouble because you have misunderstood something." All true, Nagi thought. "Come on, let's help each other."

"Maybe," Nagi said. "I do need help. If you can provide it, who am I to say no?"


	23. Coming of Age

**Chapter Twenty-Two – Coming of Age**

On MS Word, this is the top of page 100. I like to think I did that on purpose. It's a lie, but still, it would have been some prophesising worthy of Brad, ne? This is probably the first section that really deserves that R, and I'll try to keep it no more than that, but I'm still a bit fuzzy about the boundaries ^_^ 

Schuldig stared at the bed. Brad was lying on it, naked. He looked vulnerable, but also, well… dead. His eyes were closed and he wasn't moving, like a corpse laid out in the morgue ready to be dressed for the funeral. On the bed side table was a collection of things Brad had assumed they'd need. Condoms, lube, a damp cloth…

"I can't do this," Schuldig said weakly.

Brad's eyes opened. "Why not?" He didn't question Schuldig's sudden declaration.

"It's not real."

"Did I do something wrong?" Brad sounded slightly confused and a little put out, but patient. He knew that he was the one with a lot to learn here.

Schuldig stared at him. Slowly, he made his way over to the bed and collapsed onto it, lying parallel to Brad with his head by the older man's toes. He didn't know what to say, how to say it.

"Yes," he said eventually.

Brad frowned. It wasn't often he was told he was in the wrong. He didn't like it. "How so?" he asked quietly, trying to second-guess Schuldig's answer in his own mind. Did he have the wrong equipment ready? Was he not attractive enough? Was there something he was supposed to have done which he'd never heard about?

"No, no and no," Schuldig moaned. "And therein, yes. You're thinking far too much about the whole thing. It's sex, Brad. It's supposed to be spontaneous, not subject to meticulous planning. You feel like a client, not a friend."

"I don't understand," Brad admitted reluctantly. "This whole thing had to be planned. It is, in itself, a plan."

"You're tactless," Schuldig said bluntly. "I was a prostitute. It was not pleasant. You are treating me like a prostitute. This is not pleasant. Follow yet?" he rolled onto his stomach and started playing with Brad's toes, separating them and moving them around. They twitched. "Earlier, it could have been perfect. In front of the television, curled up like that, letting everything progress naturally from fooling around to fucking around. But you scheduled it. You wouldn't do it until some preordained time. It's all set up and prepared and I feel like you've allocated me some portion of your day, given me some kind of appointment, and I feel like a prostitute." He started to suck on Brad's toes, tongue exploring between them. They tasted of soap and shampoo and slightly of salt. Brad was one of those people who showered in the evening.

"I see."

"No you didn't, or it wouldn't be like this now," Schuldig smirked. "You're not even hard." He traced a finger down the sole of Brad's foot. Brad's knee jerked, and Schuldig almost lost his teeth as the foot slammed into them. He grinned. Turns out, Brad was ticklish in places other than just behind the ears.

"Schuldig, this isn't supposed to be romantic. It's sex. I'm not surprised you feel like a prostitute; when we get right down to it, you are. I'm just not paying you." Brad pulled his feet away. "Get over it."

Schuldig rolled onto his side playfully, hands reaching out to catch the elusive foot again. Brad was sitting up, hands loosely clasped in front of his knees, which were drawn up to his chest. Between his legs, Schuldig could see a nest of dark curls and caught a glimpse of a gloriously erect penis. There was sweat dampening Brad's inner thighs and leaving dark spots on the white sheets. His face was a picture of perfect calm and composure, but Schuldig's toe nibbling had had it's desired effect.

"Undress me," Schuldig commanded, stretching out across the sheets.

"Undress yourself," Brad said. Schuldig was wearing his uniform trousers with the green jacket, and a white expanse of sculpted chest taunted Brad. When Schuldig edged closer Brad could see a dark nipple, incongruously dark against the pale and slightly freckled skin, straining upright, it's aureole almost purple. Unconsciously, he licked his lips.

"You'll like my way better," Schuldig promised. "Trust me, there's no one with more experience than the guilty one." His eyelids fluttered, lashes a shade darker than his hair, brushing flushed skin. Brad wondered what shade his 'other' hair would be. Suddenly he was overcome with an overpowering urge to find out.

He moved like a snake, grabbing Schuldig's thin grey trousers and pulling them down, accidentally ripping them. The sound of the ragged seams giving way seem to send Schuldig into a frenzy, and he arced his back to brush bare chest against bare chest. Brad spared a hand to pull off the jacket and toss it across the room as Schuldig fastened on to him like a leech, sucking on Brad's neck until his stomach muscles gave way and he flopped back onto the bed.

They paused briefly, panting. Schuldig stared up at Brad. Brad stared down at Schuldig, one arm holding himself up over the teen. Damp auburn curls surrounded the proof that Schuldig was more than over his earlier objections. Brad stared at it, a wave of uncharacteristic nervousness washing through him. Soon, that would be in him. He'd have someone inside of him. And again tomorrow night, but someone he couldn't stand.

"Hush," Schuldig murmured, reaching up to stroke Brad's hair and remove his glasses. "It's good. It's okay to be nervous, baby."

Brad pulled back. "Baby?" He asked incredulously. "You have got to be kidding me!"

Schuldig chuckled, a deep, sultry sound. "Come back," he growled, reaching around Brad's neck to pull him back down. Brad jumped at the feeling of Schuldig's naked body moulding itself to his. It was a new, fresh feeling, and entirely good. Schuldig kissed the crown of his head, giving Brad time to get used to every new sensation. Brad gave him a peck on the cheek.

"Let go," Schuldig purred. "Come on, you want this. Let me know you want this. Let your body tell me in all the ways it wants to."

Brad pulled his head back slightly, to look at Schuldig for a moment, then leant forwards slowly, lips slightly parted. Schuldig smiled and tilted his head at the angle Brad seemed to be anticipating. The kiss was much more restrained than either man wanted, gentle, exploratory, testing. Schuldig was keeping a tight rein on his impulses, letting Brad take the initiative. Brad was waiting for him, aware that the next night would have nothing to do with his own wants or needs.

* More, harder! * Schuldig demanded. Brad gave in more than willingly, deepening the kiss beyond passion, pressing against Schuldig, trapping their heat between them. He whimpered into Schuldig's mouth as the experienced younger man reached down and firmly grasped his throbbing erection, pumping it smoothly.

"God, Schuldig!" Brad whimpered. Schuldig removed his hand to push Brad over. "Wha'? Don't stop!"

"Lube," Schuldig growled. "Are you ready?"

Brad stared up at him, wide eyes and tousled hair, body slick with sweat. Was he ready? It was too late to ask that kind of question. He was nervous – no, he was terrified. He didn't want Schuldig inside of him. He didn't want to be taken like a woman.

"Brad?" Schuldig stared down at him.

"Do it," Brad told him, wrapping his legs over Schuldig's shoulders. "I want you in me."

* * *

Schuldig gasped as he came, feeling Brad's sphincter tighten around his penis as Brad did the same. Brad threw his head back, but made no sound. As they collapsed into each other's arms, Schuldig gently withdrawing, Brad's eyes were still glazed.

Schuldig curled around Brad, spooning his new lover's body and wrapping his arms around Brad's waist. "So, now you are officially a man, what do you think? Feel any different?"

Brad frowned into the pillow, aware that Schuldig had managed to manipulate him into lying in the wet spot. Somehow, that was comforting. It was so typically Schuldig, in a situation that was so atypical of Brad. "I didn't enjoy it," he admitted frankly.

Schuldig stiffened. "I… you… but…" He frowned into Brad's spine, chewing his lip. "You came!" he wailed.

"I know. I mean, it was good. Not that I have anything to compare it to. But definitely very good sex. I just didn't enjoy it." Brad frowned. "I mean, I…"

"You lost control," Schuldig guessed correctly. "You're so fucking anal I'm not surprised you didn't like that bit of it." Schuldig remembered the panicked gasps and frantic movements as Brad had moved with him. Schuldig had had power over him, Schuldig had had power over how good Brad felt and how soon he'd come, thrusting into him and pumping his erection at the same time. Yes, Schuldig had had power over Brad, and Brad hadn't liked relinquishing that kind of control one little bit.

"Huh?"

"I had control. That pissed you off." Schuldig was proud of himself for figuring it out. Brad frowned and rolled over, still loosely clasped in Schuldig's embrace. He found himself smiling at the shock headed German, who was squinting through his hair.

"You know, I think you might be right," he sighed. "How were my shields?"

"Fucking awful," Schuldig said cheerfully. "Let's do it again, and see if you can learn to enjoy it!"

Brad's smile suddenly took on a predatory edge. With a firm hand he grabbed Schuldig's shoulder and pressed him face down into the mattress. Schuldig growled as Brad mounted him forcefully, taking control.

It wasn't long before Brad reached his limits, having not bothered with any lubrication or a condom in his desire to take Schuldig. Schuldig yelped as Brad's thrusts grew more intense and his own erection dug into the mattress, his hands trapped by his sides. Brad came suddenly, and Schuldig's back arced to accommodate the final thrust. Brad collapsed, spent, on top of him, pinning Schuldig to the mattress. Schuldig whimpered, unable to breath, his length trapped and painful.

"You need… to learn… some consideration for others…" Schuldig panted. "Mustn't… neglect… your partner."

"Huh?" Brad peeled himself off of the younger man. "Neglect?" Schuldig rolled over and Brad's eyes widened at the sight of Schuldig's swollen penis. "Wow," he smirked. "No wonder you were so popular as a prostitute."

"I'm just as popular now," Schuldig snapped. He started to stroke his erection, not meeting Brad's eyes. He wanted the older man to feel guilty for being such an inconsiderate lover. A damn good lover, though.

It caught him by surprise when something other than his own hand brushed the head of his erection. He stared down, mouth opening in a silent 'oh' of shock. He couldn't see anything below his waist, hidden from him as it was by the top of Brad's head. He moved his hand swiftly, and felt the warm mouth engulf him. It wasn't long before he was gasping out a warning to Brad, who gamely swallowed everything Schuldig threw at him.

"Schu," Brad murmured, using Schuldig's body to pull himself level with the younger man, "what am I going to do tomorrow? I'm going to fall to pieces."

It was a surprisingly honest confession, and Schuldig felt honoured to hear it. He pressed against Brad's warm body, rolling one of the older man's nipples between his thumb and finger. "I don't know about you, but I can keep this up all night," he leered. "And you know, practice makes perfect…" Brad found himself responding to Schuldig's touch.

"He's going to take me, Schuldig," Brad reminded him. "I could fuck you for eternity, but I don't think I could be fucked by you again. I have to let him be on top."

"So? You can still take control." Schuldig kissed him deeply, tongue straining to reach Brad's wisdom teeth, just to see if he could. "Ride me, Brad. Sit up there and ride me hard and wet until I'm begging for more." Brad seemed to consider this for a second, and then he sat up and swung his leg over Schuldig's anticipatory body, straddling the younger man.

Lying on the mattress, hands clutching the bedstead, Schuldig stared up at him through a veil of hair. Brad curled his fingers through Schuldig's other hair, tangled at his groin into sweaty knots and matted curls. Schuldig's stamina and recovery time never ceased to amaze him, and he realised with pride that he wasn't struggling to keep up. Schuldig's washboard stomach quivered as Brad's tongue chased a sweat droplet across it, leaving a cold trail. Slowly, Brad lowered himself onto Schuldig. Within moments they had settled back into what was rapidly becoming their usual rhythm.

* * *

Brad could see the sun rising through the window, the snow on the Alps glowing and sparkling. He didn't feel particularly different than he had this time yesterday, except his aches were no longer hangover induced and he felt generally better all round. Some of that nervous tension that had been plaguing him for months, no, years, not just since the news of his impending doom, was gone, and he fancifully imagined it melting away from his body as the snow melted away from the mountains during a splendid dawn.

"So poetic," Schuldig mumbled beside him. Schuldig was sprawled across more than half the bed, taking advantage of the width of the small double compared to the ridiculously narrow bunks in the dorms. The white sheets, no longer crisp in any sense of the word, were pooled about their feet, and the light the set the hills on fire had a similar effect on Schuldig's pale skin, causing splintered colours to flicker across the lean sinewy torso.

Schuldig caught Brad staring at him. He grinned and stretched, catlike, and there was an unmistakable air of smug satisfaction around him. "So," he purred, "do you feel ready to face the day as a man?"

Brad sat up, stretching his arms above his head and grimacing as his back popped. "What is this obsession of your with sex making me a man? I was quite man enough, thank you."

"Ja, ja," Schuldig shifted round to rest his head in Brad's lap. "It's a traditional coming of age rite. With emphasis on the 'coming'." He leered.

"You just like the idea of being a man before me, don't you?" Brad grinned down at him. "In most cultures, you have to be eighteen to be considered a man. Hell, in most countries you have to be eighteen to do what we just did, and often it's not legal even then."

"Does it turn you on, breaking the rules like that?" Schuldig wiggled his hips and raised his eyebrows, making Brad laugh. The older man shook his head with amusement and tried to push Schuldig away so he could get up. "Just as well," Schuldig gave in, sitting up of his own accord, "I'm pretty certain I turned eighteen somewhere around the fifth time."

"It's your birthday today? Many happy returns," Brad said.

"Return what? That's one of those nonsensical English phrases, isn't it? Like 'how do you do?' Seriously, how do I do what?" Schuldig watched Brad get dressed through his hair. Brad collected Schuldig's trousers, now ruined, and his jacket.

"We need to do something about that hair of yours," he observed. "It's getting ridiculous."

"You didn't see me the other day. Kept walking into walls," Schuldig grinned, studying the trousers, which had once been a single item of clothing consisting of two tubes, and was now two items of clothing consisting of a single tube each.

Brad gestured for Schuldig to see if he could find a pair of trousers in Brad's wardrobe that would fit without too many alterations and wandered into the kitchen. He'd need to wash those sheets. Hell, he'd need to wash the floor too. And the window ledge. And the ceiling.

Ceiling? Brad frowned. That had been an education. He fished in the cupboard under the sink, the place where people are told repeatedly never to keep cleaning products but everyone does, and grabbed a handful of cloths and a great deal of bleach. At the back of the cupboard was a packet of dusters, with only one left. Without really thinking about it, Brad took that out too.

He walked back into the sparsely furnished bedroom to spot Schuldig, wearing only the jacket, standing in front of the built in wardrobe. One hand was pressed firmly to the top of his head, and Brad frowned. Schuldig glanced round, and Brad realised with a laugh that Schuldig was holding his hair out of his eyes.

Brad glanced down at the duster in his hand. Working on the hunch Schuldig would have no idea what its original use was, he chucked it to the birthday boy.

"Here, present," he grinned. "Use it to tie your hair back." Schuldig stared at the soft yellow cloth, running it between his fingers. He looked up, beaming, and Brad saw a hint of a tear sparkling at the bottom of one eye.

"Danke," Schuldig said hoarsely, folding the long dusting cloth into a strip and tying it at the back of his neck. It wasn't perfect, but it would do, taking the place of his hand to keep his hair out of his eyes.

Brad walked over and leant on the wardrobe, tying to ignore the temptation the mostly naked Schuldig represented. Something about the combination of the dimpled bare bottom peeking out from under the jacket as Schuldig turned back to the wardrobe, the genuine feeling and vulnerability in Schuldig's 'danke' and the youthful maturity of the one time child prostitute prompted Brad to slip his arms around the younger man and kiss his ear. Schuldig leant back into him, and Brad pressed him against the nearest available surface for a little more support as hands started their now customary exploration.

Damn, he was going to have to clean the wardrobe as well.

And that, mes amies, was the sex scene you were all waiting for. ^_^ 


	24. Rough Times

**Chapter Twenty-Three – Rough Times**

Nagi sat with Rammi in the courtyard, silently chewing on an egg mayonnaise sandwich and watching the older boy with huge eyes as he explained Rosenkreuz to him.

"The trick is to hold something back," Rammi confided. "Doesn't matter what it is, as long as they never figure it out. I mean, you're really smart. They don't know that yet. Keep it to yourself, and it becomes your only advantage. You're 'friend' Schuldig, he's not letting on how physically strong he is."

"What about you?" Nagi asked around the greasy slices of bread. He hadn't wanted the sandwich, but Rammi had insisted that since he'd gone to the bother of stealing it for Nagi it was the least Nagi could do. So, driven by guilt, Nagi fought the protestations of his delicate stomach and swallowed another mouthful of what tasted, to him at least, like cold semen.

"Me? Oh, how strong I am, I guess. Powerful, I mean. You know…" Rammi waved vaguely. "It's the only way to survive."

Nagi had doubts about a lot of what Rammi said sometimes. For example, Schuldig wasn't shy about his abnormal strength, but his talents as a telepath went way beyond the masters' expectations. And Rammi didn't strike him as particularly powerful, though he could just be really good at this stuff.

"You want them to underestimate you," Rammi told him. "The only thing as dangerous to your enemies as underestimation is overestimation, but that one's a bit harder to make them do. Still, fear is God. Try to inspire fear in those smaller than you." There was a pause. "Okay, those less powerful that you. You need underlings, Nagi. You need to show that you're top dog around here, among the students. Only the strong survive and all that."

"What about flattery? Schuldig-sama seemed to flirt with the teachers. A lot. They liked him for it." Nagi floated the remains of the sandwich to the bin. His stomach hurt.

"Heh," Rammi scoffed. "That's a tough game to play. The only reason that bitch got away with it was because he was so tight with that seer.  You have to know who'll be here tomorrow," Rammi said.

"I don't understand," Nagi admitted. "Why should someone be here today and not here tomorrow? You can't leave."

"You can die, Nagi. You need to pick your friends carefully. If the teacher you've been sucking up to is accused of being traitor, you'll go down too as a favourite of theirs. If you don't want that there's a hell of a lot of going down to do."

Nagi didn't really understand the grim pun, but he nodded encouragingly.

"Nagi, you and I are going to be a team. You're going to learn to refine that power of yours, and I'm going to show you where to direct it. Together you and I are going to survive." Rammi pounded his fist into his palm for emphasis. His impassioned speech was getting a lot of interest from the other students, and Nagi found himself shrinking back against the all out of habit. Being noticed was bad.

"Shh," Nagi whispered in a strangled voice. "They look, they see. Mustn't attract attention. Gotta be good."

"What?" Rammi stopped in front of him, staring down, hands on hips. "What are you on about, Nagi?"

"They're staring, they can see us!" Nagi whimpered. "Attracting attention."

"They can't understand what we're saying, Nagi. It doesn't matter," Rammi dismissed Nagi's fears.

Nagi curled up against the wall and quivered while Rammi continued his rant, waving emphatically to explain how they were going to come out on top and how he was going to use Nagi and how everyone would know them and fear them. Nagi didn't want to be known, didn't want to be the subject of undivided attention. When people paid attention to you, when they saw you and noticed you, they did bad things to you. They used you.

Another boy was watching them. He had noticed Nagi now, noticed the huge eyes and exotic beauty. Nagi bit his lip to keep from crying out as he felt those eyes drink him in. He couldn't see the boy, but he could feel his scrutiny. Once you had been seen you couldn't go back to being invisible.

* * *

Crawford stood in front of Hertz's office, fist raised to knock on the portentous oak door. Schuldig was hovering around the corner, just out of sight. Crawford could feel him against his internal shields, a comforting presence and a frightening reminder.

There was a sigh from inside the room. "Bradley? You can come in," A refined voice called out. Gregory. Brad pushed on the door and it swung inwards with an ominous creak. Well, it had been ominous until Schuldig had informed him that Hertz used a mixture of honey and sand on the hinges to force the noise. There was something wrong about a cultivated creak.

Gregory was standing in the middle of the room, as faraway from the walls and desk as he could get. Brad understood why – Schuldig said the walls in Rosenkreuz screamed with memories, and it wouldn't surprise Brad if this room were the worst for it.

Hertz was sitting at the desk, stroking its 'leather' inlay lovingly. It was no secret the two men despised each other. Madame Dubois was standing in a corner of the room, watching him with a hint of fear in her eyes. The others hadn't seen first hand the destruction this one young American would have wrought on their mother society. 

It occurred to Brad then that if they didn't find anything now, they might still kill him. Madame Dubois's vision was considered proof enough, and they only needed to check if the others were involved. And if they didn't kill him, this could become a regular precaution, to make sure it never occurred to him. And, of course, they'd expect it to. They weren't stupid, they knew this sort of thing bred contempt and rebellion. Suddenly he wanted to confess to every wicked thought he'd ever had, to tell them everything he knew and beg to be left alone, even if it was under constant supervision. If he told them, they might let him off, they might not even rape him…

"I know what you're doing," Crawford said scathingly. "Remember Hertz, you turned this trick on me once before. I am above my baser instincts."

"No one can overcome their own brain chemistry," Hertz muttered. "You are just ignoring it. Your body is ready to run."

"Or resist," Crawford said smoothly. "Flight or fight syndrome; I am quite aware of it. So, will you be watching?"

Gregory flinched. "No," he said, pain stricken. "We're going to my temporary quarters here."

"So, shall we?" Crawford opened the door with a sickly false smile. Gregory didn't move.

"Please, I request that Ado- Schuldig be removed from the corridor. I do not wish to speak to him just now, and I do don't need that sort of distraction."

Pervert, Crawford thought. You're just worried you won't be able to get it up without picturing him as he was, and seeing him now will destroy that image.

Greg didn't react. Crawford felt vaguely triumphant. So far, his shields were holding. Of course, they usually held, except when Schuldig was prying. Hertz moved to find Schuldig. Brad felt a wave of guilt and sympathy. They knew what had happened last night, and Schuldig was going to be punished. Hertz was looking forwards to it.

Crawford stamped down on those emotions, obliterating 'Brad' from his system. He could afford to feel anything for the next hour. Those emotions weakened his shields and would make him more susceptible to fear, and thus trauma. It was bad enough with Hertz playing with his body chemistry, forcing basic instinctual emotions on him, but these more complex ones also had to be kept at bay.

Gregory let them into the small apartments. Crawford raised his eyebrows. It was exactly the same layout, even exactly the same furnishings, as his own. He hadn't been here for about three years. It seemed somehow much longer ago than that, yet also much more recently. He glanced around the room and his jaw dropped. The same bottle of wine was on the table.

Gregory looked sheepish. "I haven't been here for a long time," he excused himself. "I guess they don't clean for you."

"Who don't?" Crawford asked bitterly. "This isn't the Ritz. There are no maids and bellboys."

"I suppose not," Gregory sighed. "Come on, let's get this over with." He looked at Crawford sadly. "Don't hold this against me," he said with a hint of fear. "This isn't something I want to do. If you and Adonis weren't so close he'd be doing it, but it's something of a moot point now."

"Don't call Schuldig that," Crawford growled, surprising himself. He hadn't realised he still felt so strongly about it.

"He liked it," Gregory snapped. "Don't even think about judging us. You are not a telepath."

Crawford frowned. He hadn't realised Schuldig's licentious behaviour had anything to do with his power. He'd thought, well, he'd thought Schuldig did it for fun. Schuldig liked sex. It had made sense. Schuldig had had a screwed up childhood. Schuldig needed to pay for drugs. Schuldig needed to be needed.

"Ah have always depended on the kindness of strangers," Crawford murmured in a deep Southern accent.

"I like that play," Greg smiled 'A Streetcar Named Desire', by Tennessee Williams, in case you were wondering. Crawford glowered at him, and it was this expression that he'd refine over the years to frighten Weiss. His eyes burned.

Gregory pushed the door open to the small bedroom. It was starkly clean in contrast to the rest of the flat. There were no sheets on the bed and no curtains at the window. Crawford's shoes squeaked on the bare wood floor.

Gregory sat on the mattress and started to undo his shirt. Remembering some of Schuldig's advice, Crawford reached around and did it for him. Greg let his hands fall limply to his sides. Crawford ran his fingers across the slightly pigeon-chested older man, trying not to compare it to Schuldig's. The hair colour was almost the same, though Greg had more freckles and some of his skin was peeling near the top of his trousers where the sun had burnt his back.

"This isn't how it's supposed to go," Gregory frowned. "I don't think you quite understand the concept of rape."

"Will they know?" Crawford smiled wolfishly as he straddled Gregory's lap.

Gregory frowned and grabbed Crawford's wrists, flipping him onto the bed. With quick, experienced movements he pulled off Crawford's clothes. He'd worn a three-piece suit, as well as a vest and two layers of underwear. He'd hoped it would give him more time to prepare. It didn't.

Crawford's breathing hitched when he saw Greg's penis. It wasn't as large as Schuldig's but at the thought of having it forced into him he stiffened. The fear he had been fighting began to take a hold of him. He was going to lose. After all his meticulous planning, he was going to lose. Schuldig was right, losing his virginity hadn't helped, this was rape.

Greg didn't kiss him, didn't touch him. In fact, he was holding himself as far from Crawford as possible. With one hand he undid his trousers and wriggled out of them. Crawford was tense beneath him, stomach muscles clenched so that the taut skin on his belly quivered. Gregory ran a finger down it.

* It's good that you're scared, * Greg assured the frightened boy. He was a boy, only twenty-two, after all, and he'd never really suffered. Schuldig, Nagi, most of the students, they'd gone through things like this before they even arrived at Rosenkreuz. * You're making my job much easier. *

"No," Crawford murmured. "Please, I'll do anything you want. I know you don't like this. Please. Money, whatever. I'll give you head. I'll… I'll do anything!"

"You're right, I don't like doing this, but I like what Hertz is going to do to me if I give him an answer he doesn't want to hear even less," Gregory said pragmatically. A cold part of Crawford recognised that he'd do exactly the same if it were his own skin that needed saving. Hell, he did need to save his own skin here.

Gregory prepared himself to enter Crawford, but found his body less than willing. With a sigh, he concentrated, searching for a familiar mind.

* Greg? * An apprehensive murmur in the back of his mind.

* You want to do this, * Greg promised. He flinched suddenly.

Crawford frowned up at the contorted face.

* What's going on, Adonis? * Greg questioned.

* Guess, * Schuldig snapped. A wave of pain ripple through him again, and although Gregory did not directly receive the pain he received Schuldig's thoughts on the subject, which prompted a similar reaction in himself.

Gregory was shaking with the backlash of Schuldig's pain, and Crawford was shaking with nerves, but neither fact explained why the rest of the room was shaking. A low rumbling began, growing to a roar as chunks of plaster and stone tumbled and crashed to the floor. Outside, snow started to move of it's own accord, booming down the mountains to bury whole towns far below.

A chunk of stone about the size of a brick hit Gregory's lower back, and he yelped. He rolled off of Crawford and ducked under the bed. Crawford narrowly avoided a much more exaggerated fate as half the ceiling crashed down. He pressed his body into the doorframe, vaguely remembering some obscure diagrams on a safety leaflet he'd seen in his father's lodge in Japan.

Across the complex ceilings collapsed and walls gave way. One entire wing of dormitories was completely destroyed and almost a hundred pupils killed. The Laboratories lost half their subjects as the staff dealt with their own safety. Hertz was almost killed by his own desk as Schuldig managed to get under it first to hide from the falling trophies once mounted on the walls. All of Rosenkreuz suffered from the effects of the earthquake, which would fill the international newspapers for maybe a day and half before they lost interest. An earthquake in Austria? Measuring 8.9 on the Richter scale? How… odd.

For Crawford, how convenient.

Crawford stumbled back to the centre of the room and lifted a chunk of plaster off of the mattress. Gregory clambered out from under the bed, white and shaking. Crawford stared at him. Gregory had been shaking before the earthquake. His mind had clearly been elsewhere, trying to find someone he found more stimulating than Crawford himself. Sudden fury swept the last of Crawford's fear away. He grabbed Greg's chin and Gregory towards him.

"Leave him alone," Crawford growled. "He is mine now, understand?"

"Yours?" Gregory clearly didn't understand. 

Crawford ran his finger under Gregory's chin. "Let me explain. Schuldig is mine. I don't like other people touching my things. Don't touch him."

Gregory closed his eyes again, not making a sound. He was scared. He knew perfectly well that this could go either way here, and neither was actually the right way. He was supposed to be raping Crawford, scaring the shit out of him like he had been, not shaking like a jelly, with weak knees and a throbbing back, waiting to find out whether he'd made Crawford angry enough to rape him, or whether he'd just be rough.

Crawford stared down at him. "I'm not going to hurt you. I will hurt you if you go anywhere near Schuldig ever again. I will rip out your testicles and shove them up your anus. There will be a medical team standing by to make sure you live." Crawford smirked down at him. "You're getting hard, you pervert," he frowned. "Keep your eyes closed. If you picture him I'll know."

Crawford tossed Greg onto the bed and straddled him. Greg prepared himself to be forcefully entered, but was surprised to feel Crawford gingerly covering his erection with a condom and coating it with lubricant. Crawford lowered himself onto the erect penis and began to rock up and down. The sex was fast and rough, but Greg didn't forget his purpose. At no point did Crawford's shields so much as splinter. What the fuck was he going to tell Hertz? Greg came suddenly, pain as much as pleasure roaring through his system as he emptied himself into the rubber sock.

Crawford climbed off and walked into the bathroom. Greg lay silently on the bed, watching him walk away. The younger man wasn't even hard. He closed his eyes in a mix of despair and shame. He heard the shower switch on and, a short time later, switch off. Crawford returned and threw a wet cloth onto his stomach. The shock of the cold flannel on his sweaty stomach made Greg's eyes snap open.

"What will I tell Hertz?" he asked. "If I tell him I couldn't get through your shields we'll both die."

"Lie, idiot." Crawford started to dress. "He'll know you did as instructed."

"He'll know I'm lying."

"I'll tell the truth."

"I don't understand," Greg sat up and cleaned himself with the dirty flannel.

"I am required, Mr May. When it comes to the summoning, they will need me there." Crawford smiled, the sort of smile that was more accustomed to eating dolphins than making pleasant post-coital conversation. "Like Schuldig, I am indispensable."

"So, I just tell them you will play no part in the downfall of Estet?" Gregory sat cross-legged on the dusty mattress. "They won't buy that."

Crawford turned around and stood over Gregory, looming. "Once, you removed a memory of mine. I do not know what that memory is, only that it involved a girl who spoke to me. Perhaps, I never knew more than that in the first place."

"You were a novice, they are not. I can't make Madame Dubois just forget the downfall of everything she holds dear."

"I'm not telling you to. Just add a little weight to your words. Make them believe you." Crawford leant down, placing one hand on either side on Gregory. "I do not want to hear another word on the subject, understand?"

Gregory nodded, cowed by this demanding young man. Crawford didn't ask, he told. Crawford didn't request, he demanded. Crawford didn't discipline, he punished. In Rosenkreuz, rape was a disciplinary action.

Crawford knotted his tie and adjusted it, then strode out of the room. Gregory sat on the bed, trying to get a hold of himself. He wished Crawford wouldn't act so proud; it was going to make his job even harder. But then, that was what Crawford wanted.

* * *

Schuldig grabbed Greg's arm. Greg glanced over and froze in horror.

"Don't come near me," he gasped.

"Why? What did Brad say?" Schuldig insisted.

"That he'd stick my bollocks up my arse," Greg said frankly. He looked at Schuldig. The slender youth had grown into a strapping young man and left his implied innocence behind. Schuldig could leer and smirk and be as sadistic as Hertz when the mood took him. Adonis had been a different person. Greg sighed. "You've changed."

"So?"

"What is it you want to hear?" Greg asked plaintively. "That I love you? I never did. That I want you? I don't. That I ever did? Never."

Schuldig let go of his arm. "I knew the first two," he admitted. "I thought there had been something, once. You wanted me."

"No. I lusted after your body. You, I didn't like. If Estet hadn't been so impressed by the discovery of a new, relatively sane, telepath I would have had you the minute I met you."

Schuldig looked like he'd been slapped. "I see. Just like everyone else, then?"

"Yes. Are we done here?" Gregory turned to continue walking down the corridor. "I have been exiled, so I'd quite like to leave before Hertz changes his mind."

"You're expendable now I'm here," Schuldig told him, "and I'm here to stay. We are done here."

It took a great deal of self-control on Schuldig's part not to kill the older man as he walked away, haughty and proud. No, not self-control. He was just in too much pain from Hertz's most recent beating to lift his arm far enough to shoot the man in the back of his head. He shot his ankle though, and limped away.


	25. Aftershocks

**Chapter Twenty-Four – Aftershocks**

Brad frowned. "Why do you keep coming back?" he asked Schuldig, who was collapsed on his couch. "I was not under the impression this was a regular arrangement."

"Why the fuck did you tell Greg you'd stick his balls up his butt?" Schuldig asked.

"I suppose we can always work on your language skills," Brad sighed, picking up a pile of heavy books and dropping them onto the small table.

"Or, we could have hot, heavy sex?" Schuldig grinned suggestively.

"I did tell you that it was to be a one off," Brad stated uncertainly. "There was no question about this becoming a regular occurrence. I do not want to have sex with you again."

Schuldig gave him a disbelieving look. "You want me. I want you. Why do we keep hitting this problem? Sex is good. It's amazingly good exercise, it makes you happy, it keeps you psychologically sound. So why aren't you throwing me onto the table instead of those books and fucking me unconscious?"

"You really have a way with words," Brad sighed. "If you want sex, I'm sure any one of your fellow students will be happy to oblige. I'm fine without, thank you."

Brad opened one of the books and gestured for Schuldig to take the chair next to him. With a moody sigh, Schuldig flopped into the chair bonelessly, one leg hooked over the back and his opposite arm clutching the side to stay relatively upright. Brad sighed, but didn't comment.

"I can't find Nagi," Schuldig said after a short period of study. "He's avoiding me. He won't talk to me."

"He can't talk to you, Schuldig," Brad said tiredly. "And it's not as though you've been around a lot."

"True. What with all the not fucking we've been doing," Schuldig said pointedly. "But the kid as actually going out of his way to avoid me. Something happened the other day, at night."

"Really need to work on your language skills," Brad sighed to himself.

Schuldig went on, frowning at the interruption, "it's this Indian kid he keeps hanging around with."

"Native American," Brad corrected automatically.

"No, Indian. As in, from India." Schuldig paused. "Okay, he might be Pakistani or Bangladeshi, but you know, that general area of the 'East'. Ever since he attached himself to Nagi the kid's being growing actively hostile towards me. I mean, he hasn't done anything yet, but he thinks I've betrayed him. Do you think it might be because we didn't follow his plan?"

"No. Now concentrate. What is a syllable?" Brad pushed the book in front of Schuldig.

"Something I'm never going to have to define except here," Schuldig snapped, thrusting the book away. "Teach me how to hold an argument on paper, Brad, teach me what to say and why to say it. Don't teach me how. I'll work on spelling, you work on grammar. What use is defining a syllable when I'm writing to save my neck? You think they're actually going to put that as the essay question? 'How is Rosenkreuz great and what is a syllable?'" Schuldig swung his feet to the ground and sat up properly, leaning across the table to glare at Brad. "I told you, Nagi caused an earthquake. What saved you the other night?"

Brad glowered back at him. "What do you mean?" he asked icily.

"Greg got off by using my mind to visualise me," Schuldig snapped, "you know perfectly well what I mean. You were on the verge of shattering when that fucking earthquake gave you the upper hand. We're in fucking Austria! I may not know much geography, but this is not somewhere you usually get earthquakes. Do you think people would ski here if you did?"

"Applying general knowledge to reach a suitable conclusion," Brad murmured approvingly. "You don't need me to teach you how to form an argument."

"Are you even fucking listening?" Schuldig stared at him. "Someone raped Nagi. Nagi cause earthquake. Nagi not talking to me. Nagi talking to Indian guy. Do you need that in shorter sentences? Smaller words? Should I spell it for you?" Schuldig bit out sarcastically.

"There are a lot of telekinetics," Brad reminded him. "Nagi doesn't matter to us."

"He matters to me," Schuldig muttered under his breath.

Brad frowned. "Why?"

"I don't know," Schuldig sighed. "I sort of laid claim to him, I guess. He's mine, I'm yours, you're Rosenkreuz's."

"I'm Tanya's, in that sense," Brad corrected enigmatically.

"Who? Don't care," Schuldig stopped Brad before he could elaborate. "Point is, I took responsibility for the kid. And now he's being stolen from me, by someone I don't trust!"

"'Stolen'?" Brad asked softly. Schuldig looked uncomfortable.

"Well, he's mine, and I don't like this other guy," he whined awkwardly. "That's not the point. He's in Madame Dubois's vision."

"He has another three years to survive. Should he survive those, without intervention, then I will consider him, should I get to choose my own field team. Until then, he is unimportant to us." Brad spoke in a 'and that's final' tone. Unusually, Schuldig accepted it. It went against everything in his nature, but if he wanted Brad to see that he'd make a great full-time lover, then he would have to be good. It rankled, but he persisted.

"So, sex?"

"No," Brad sighed. "English."

"Can't we finish German first?" Schuldig complained.

"English has a much simpler grammar, though the pronunciation is bizarre and inconsistent. It is becoming a world language, and I want you to be able to speak it." Brad opened a German to English dictionary and a children's exercise book full of puppies and alarmingly happy children.

"You mean you miss speaking it, as it's your first language, and you want to be able to hold a decent conversation in it," Schuldig guessed correctly. "I speak English fluidly, Brad. I fucked the Englishman. I speak it better than you."

"Now you're being ridiculous," Brad sneered.

"So how do you spell colour? Or pronounce route? [Eng – like root, USA – Rao-t ]" Schuldig gave a triumphant smirk. "I speak English. You speak American."

"Can you spell either of those words?" Brad asked superiorly. 

Schuldig found himself staring at a page of small children and anthropomorphic dogs while Brad droned on about the differences in pronunciation and the similarities in spelling while Schuldig covered the puppies with red ink wounds and tried to guess what each child was taking. Crawford did his best to overlook the carefully sketched needles and pills that soon covered the page, but it took a lot of willpower to repress the laughter.

* * *

Nagi hooked his arms around his knees and stared at the ground. This wasn't supposed to be happening. He'd been so certain that it wouldn't happen here. He'd been so careful to avoid notice. He'd tried to hard to be overlooked. When people had hurt him, he'd 'accidentally' killed them. But still it had happened.

Rammi came and stood next to him. "Was that you, the other night?" he asked languidly. He'd managed to get a cigarette from somewhere, probably the same place as Schuldig got his, and the smoke drifted down on the still, fresh winter air, to choke Nagi.

Nagi didn't reply, he just coughed miserably. Rammi frowned at him. "Nagi, I'm your friend. I don't want to hurt you. I can see that someone else has. Tell me who, Nagi, and I'll hurt them."

Nagi frowned. "No," he said in his smallest voice.

Rammi was stunned. "No? You don't want vengeance on whoever? They raped you, Nagi. I'd assume it was a he, but knowing this place… Rape, Nagi. Surely you don't want it to happen again." Nagi shook his head and chewed his knuckle. "Tell me, Nagi. I'll kill them." Nagi shook his head again, cringing away from Rammi. "Nagi, I just want to help you, can't you see that?" Rammi sat down next to him, resting a companionable arm around Nagi's shoulders. Nagi's eyes widened at the contact and Rammi found himself sailing gracelessly through the air to slam into some second years that didn't take kindly to his intrusion.

Nagi watched as threats swiftly turned to violence and guilt churned in his stomach. Rammi wanted to help. Rammi was his friend. Well, Rammi said he was his friend, which was actually an entirely different thing, but having accidentally thrown him over there Nagi felt obliged to help him.

Nagi struggled to his feet, numb with cold, and stumbled across the packed earth. Rammi had just been hit, blood trickling down from the corner of his mouth. One of the boys finally noticed the tiny Japanese boy, arms tucked into his armpits for warmth, eyes huge.

"Please stop," Nagi said in his own language. One of them laughed. Then he was lying on his back. 

The others weren't impressed by Nagi's display. One of them was a telekinetic, and Nagi jerked as a wave of kinetic energy threatened to blast him into the wall. Only by using his own power was he able to keep his feet. He was tiring fast, and his head hurt, and he desperately wished he hadn't got himself into this mess. Rammi had disappeared, taking advantage of the distraction.

Nagi closed his eyes and wished. When he opened them, all of the second years were gone. He looked up, as did the few remaining students still attached to the ground. The seconds years, but not the ones who'd been bothering Rammi, were sitting on the roof. The ones who'd been bothering Rammi were dead. And everyone had seen Nagi do it.

* * *

Nagi had been pleasantly surprised by his punishment. Well, perhaps 'pleasantly' is a bit misleading. But he'd expected death, expected rape, expected something a lot worse than being beaten almost unconscious. His father had done that to him lots of times. Nagi knew how to take a beating, though he was used to fists and feet, rather than sticks and whips. He didn't pass out and he didn't make a sound. For the first time in his entire career, Hertz had to admit defeat. He'd had children from 'troubled' homes before, but Nagi's silence was like nothing he had ever encountered, and spoke of deeper traumas than were common even at Rosenkreuz.

Nagi didn't sleep that night. The boy came again. Nagi couldn't see his face, didn't hear a word. He just bit his lip and let the boy take his body while his mind was elsewhere. At least it helped him forget the excruciating pain he was in just lying on the mattress after that prolonged beating.

There was no earthquake that night. As Nagi had grown accustomed to physical abuse, so he was growing accustomed to sexual abuse.

Ai, poor Nagi!  From mild BradSchu fluff to angsty Nagi torture. And no, it's not Rammi raping him. Poor, poor Nagi. Used and abused by everyone, and worse is yet to come. *shakes head sadly * Can't believe I'm writing this. I did warn you parts of this fic were going to be very dark. 


	26. Glass half empty, cup half full

**Chapter Twenty-five – Glass Half Empty, Cup Half Full**

Rammi sought Nagi out. Nagi was standing today, since everything else was still very painful, but his posture showed that internally he was curled in a foetal position, eyes squeezed shut against the cruelty of the world. Outwardly, his eyes were blank. Eerily so.

"Nagi?" Rammi asked nervously. "Is everything…"

Nagi didn't move. He just stood there, stiff as a board, arms loose by his sides, eyes open and staring. It had been snowing for a while. It had settled on Nagi, on his shoulders and hair and face, piling on his small nose and clinging to his eyelashes. Nagi hadn't blinked in a very long time.

"Nagi, thank you," Rammi said quietly. There wasn't much else to say. "I'll repay the favour."

Finally Nagi blinked. He seemed to come back to himself, as though he'd been on vacation and left his body behind, like underwear folded on the bed but accidentally left unpacked. He stared at Rammi. His body, having gone from deathlike stillness, now seemed to quiver with suppressed movement, as though any second now Nagi would explode.

"Tell me who," Rammi urged. "You killed for me, I'll kill for you." He didn't make the mistake of touching Nagi this time, but he moved a little close, hands spread in a gesture of good will.

"Don't know," Nagi said very quietly. He blinked again, causing a small avalanche of snowflakes to cascade off of his eyelashes. A tear followed them down his cheek. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Rammi ground his teeth. No matter what his plans for Nagi, no one had the right to abuse him like this. There was a wide space around Nagi, and not just because people were afraid of him after yesterday's stunt. Every telempath in the area could feel him. Nagi was bottling things up. Nagi was a telekinetic. While the two frequently went together, it was never a happy combination.

Nagi positively thrummed with psychic energy. He was a dead zone emotionally. That's how they knew he was upset, because they couldn't feel it. That much power, that little emotion… rape. Rammi stared at the cold eyes, still welling up with tears, and fought the urge to wrap his arms around the child.

"It's going to be okay," the teen said awkwardly. "Nagi, everything's going to be okay. We'll get this guy and kill him. I'll protect you, Nagi. Shhh, it's going to be okay." Nagi stared at him, brows furrowing suddenly.

"Fuck off," Nagi said in perfect German. It rang out across the courtyard like a bell. Silence fell in the already quiet yard as scared faces turned to stare at them. They remembered yesterday.

"Nagi," Rammi sounded pained.

"It not going to be okay. It never was okay. It never will okay," Nagi said flatly, still in German. Rammi couldn't work out where he'd learnt it so suddenly. Turned out, Nagi could learn like a small child. He'd listened long enough, hard enough, and suddenly it seemed natural. Oh, it was a long way from perfect, and without real lessons it never would be, but everyone understood. 

"No protect. You no can protect," Nagi spat.

The bell rang. The courtyard emptied as students trooped inside. Rammi's stomach twisted. One comforting lie might well have ruined everything. And just when he was starting to actually like the kid.

* * *

Schuldig was getting tired of being turned down. The rejection was getting to him. He was tired of trying to convince Brad that he had more personality, and use, than an inflatable sex doll. He not only had feelings, he had intelligence. Brad had told him so, several times. Well, once upon a time, when he was Bradley and cared.

It had been a while since they'd had sex. Schuldig kept watching for a hint that Brad was ready again, that he was perhaps desperate enough to consider taking the teen up on his offer. Schuldig had given up trying to actively seduce the older man. Brad just looked down his nose at Schuldig's non-too-subtle advances and made the German feel like a cheap, and ugly, whore.

"Brad?" Schuldig popped his head around the door to Brad's apartment with a small smile. He was really learning things now. It was still a struggle, but his writing was coming on in leaps and bounds and Brad was considering teaching him Japanese. Schuldig frowned. He hadn't seen Nagi in ages. The boy was avoiding everyone now, it seemed, and most of the student body was scared stiff of him. Schuldig hadn't had to ask why; the memory was still fresh in most of the minds he encountered.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Brad gave an amused smile as Schuldig realised he was glowering perplexedly at the kitchen cabinets.

"Nagi," Schuldig sighed.

"He seems to be doing quite well for himself. His language is still coming on in fits and starts, but some bright spark made the stereotypical connection between the Japanese and electronics and gave him a laptop. Brand new one as well, it's even got that Windows thing on it." Brad was used to the old command prompt machines, lines of code and abbreviations to execute commands with painstaking slowness. He wasn't sure if the graphical user interfaces this 'Bill Gates' had introduced were worth the memory they took up, but he knew they'd catch on in a big way. Big enough for him to have already bought shares in what was currently quite a small company.

"Well, good, but I think someone's still targeting him, and not just that Rammi kid." Schuldig stretched out across the table. "So, what are we doing today? Multiplication tables, long division, apostrophes, history?" He smiled disarmingly at Brad, but as the older man produced a sheet of blank paper and a collection of pencils it changed to a frown. "What are those? Why do I need so many pencils?" Schuldig stood up and leant over the table, trying to decipher the script on the pencil box.

"Art pencils, Schuldig."

"Art?" Schuldig picked up a pencil and studied it. "Why art?"

"You've been doing so well recently," Brad said with a smile, "I thought a little rewards was in order.  No actual study today. I recalled that you have quite a talent for drawing, so I thought you might enjoy an opportunity to do so. The pencils are of various degrees of hardness, which means they will produce darker or lighter lines accordingly."

Schuldig sat down slowly, laying out the pencils on top of a piece of paper with a look of bemused amazement on his face. He tested each one and lined them up again from lightest to darkest. Brad left him experimenting with the implements while he read the morning paper.

An hour later, just as Brad was preparing to do the crossword, Schuldig gave a small cough. Brad glanced over the top of his paper to see what the teen wanted and caught sight of the picture. Slowly he lowered the paper and reached out enquiringly. Schuldig handed him the picture.

It was a pencil rending of Brad reading the paper, glasses perched at the end of his nose, hair still slightly tousled, coffee mug just in front of him. It was carefully shaded and textured. At the bottom of the page was a series of much more informal sketches of Brad reading the paper, which showed the coffee getting colder and the pages moving from right to left as Brad read further on. A clock in the background drove the idea of time passing still further home.

"You have a real talent," Brad murmured. "May I… may I keep this?"

Schuldig looked astounded, but very, very pleased. He nodded happily. Brad laid it carefully back down on the table and continued to study it, a smile growing on his lips.

"There's more to you than meets the eye," Brad admitted. "I'll bet there aren't many whores in Berlin who can draw like this."

Schuldig's smile vanished instantly. He stood fast enough to knock his chair over and snatched the drawing back. Slowly, deliberately, he shredded it in front of a protesting Brad's eyes. When the paper was a fine confetti Schuldig took the pencils, his new and most treasured gift, and broke them methodically.

"Stop!" Brad bellowed. "What do you think you're doing?"

Schuldig tossed the splinters and sawdust to the table, tears stinging his eyes. "I'm a whore, right? Nothing but a damn prostitute. I don't deserve pencils. I don't deserve paper. I'm an immoral little slut, aren't I? Aren't I?"

"You're an ungracious idiot!" Brad snapped. "What the fuck brought this little tantrum on?"

Schuldig was about to yell back when he caught sight of the broken pencils. His words caught in his throat. He sat down again, having forgetting his chair was on the floor and inadvertently joining it. A sob caught in his throat. He was an idiot. Brad was right. Cutting off his nose to spite his face… self-defeating… He'd wanted those pencils, dammit!

Brad crouched down next to him. "It's possible I cold have chosen my praise with a little more forethought," he admitted gently. Schuldig looked at him through blurred eyes, sniffing. "I forget, sometimes, that you can err towards the sensitive about your past." Schuldig gave a depreciating little laugh.

"You never change," he murmured. Brad wasn't entirely certain what to make of this sentence.

"I have more pencils, another set. Will you promise me you won't destroy these as well? They are expensive." Schuldig nodded, still hurt. Brad treated him like an irate child, hard to please and harder to console. Still, time spent with Brad was time spent with Brad, and hopefully he'd stop making those awful prostitute jokes now. There were two ways of looking at his situation, and Schuldig had always been determined that the glass was half full, and he had no compunctions about using someone else's glass to top it up from time to time.


	27. Crime

**Chapter Twenty-Six – Crime**

I was about halfway through the next chapter when it occurred to me I still had three years left to cover. So, here's another one of those 'and six months passed in this manner' chapters to take up a bit of space. Sorry, but Nagi's going to have to put up with being raped for the better part of a year. I want to bring Farf in soon, but I need to put a few more months behind us first. I'm rapidly running out of plot! 

Crawford frowned. He couldn't find Schuldig. 

That in itself was strange, since as a seer Brad could often predict where a person would be at a give time, it was doubly so considering it was Schuldig. Not only did a large portion of his visions relate to Schuldig these days, the German was rarely, if ever, gone from his side. For the last four months Schuldig and he had appeared inseparable as the German continued to try and convince him of his worthiness to be Brad's lover. Schuldig couldn't be got rid off, even when Brad didn't want him there. It seemed rather ironic that now Brad did want him, he couldn't find him.

Brad was walking through the third year corridor towards the first and second year dormitories when he smelt cigarette smoke. Smoking wasn't technically allowed on Rosenkreuz grounds, but there was a roaring tobacco trade going on which even the staff partook in. There were at least three members of staff supplying the students with the materials for rollups in return for sex, but Brad didn't like to think of Schuldig swapping his body for a smoke. He wanted to blame it on prudishness, but the burning in his chest would never fit with that explanation, and he knew he was jealous.

Putting that aside, aware that there was a fair chance that in this corridor the smoker would be a telempath, Brad pushed the door open. He froze as the smell hit him full force. No bloody way was that tobacco.

Sprawled across the floor, completely stoned, was a black fifteen-year-old seer, who Brad had had to speak to once or twice. Next to him, apparently equally high, was Schuldig.

Crawford felt no guilt at dragging both of them out of the room and towards Hertz's office. The black market was over, even if he had to crack down on it himself. The younger teen was still giggling as Crawford explained what he'd found to Hertz. Schuldig, on the other hand, had started violently protesting his innocence.

"I'm not high!" Schuldig wailed. "I haven't touched a thing! No drugs for Schuldig. I'm off them. Come on, please… Herr Hertz, you can tell I 'm not lying, can't you? And Br- Herr Crawford, you know I never lie, remember? I didn't touch the stuff! I swear! He was getting high - I don't even know his name! – and I passed by and I could feel the change on thought patterns and it affected me, as a telepath! I got so caught up in his thoughts, it wasn't my fault! I didn't touch the stuff!"

Brad felt a pang of conscience as Schuldig begged and pleaded both of them, but kept his shields clamped firmly down. He wished it hadn't been Schuldig, but this behaviour still had to be punished. If he'd found a telempath leaching off the young seer's drug induced high then he would have dragged him straight to Hertz, and so the same must apply to Schuldig.

Hertz, however, seemed to think differently. "Take him away," he gestured to Brad. "I will punish this one, you can punish your pet telepath," he said bitterly. Brad managed not to flinch, but he found himself wondering why Hertz hated him quite so much.

"Brad?" Schuldig said quietly as they walked towards Brad's quarters. "You're going to punish me, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Like he would?"

"Probably."

"I didn't mean to do anything wrong," Schuldig said earnestly. "I just… I'm an ex junkie, Brad. You couldn't understand what a draw that was to me. It's so hard to stay clean sometimes, and knowing that there's weed in Rosenkreuz… But I didn't cave. I didn't smoke any. I know you probably don't see it the same way, but there's a huge difference between what I did and what I wanted to do."

Brad sighed as they entered the main room of his apartment, turning to face Schuldig. "That's not the point. You got the benefits without the physical repercussions. I understand that probably 'makes everything so much harder', but I have to punish you as I would any other student."

"Why?" Schuldig bit out. "I get let off so much other stuff… I thought you'd be at least a little lenient. I did nothing wrong. If he'd, I don't know, been looking at porn, you wouldn't punish me for getting caught up in his mind then, would you?" he asked nastily. Schuldig knew perfectly well what Brad's opinion of him was, and while he new it to be well founded, being thought of as a slut by the man he most wanted to think well of him was a burden that could only be borne so long.

"This is illegal," Brad snapped.

"No court could ever find my actions unlawful," Schuldig pointed out bitterly.

"Sure they could. Aiding and abetting, perhaps, or whatever it is they charge you with when you get caught with stolen goods, even if you had no idea they were stolen." Brad folded his arms triumphantly. "I don't care if they knocked you out and tied you up and threatened to kill you to keep you in there with him, I'm still going to punish you."

Schuldig stared at him. "You don't get it, do you? You were never addicted to anything, were you? You can't claim to have anything to judge me against, can you?" His voice was acidic and hurt Brad, just a little, as Schuldig's pain and betrayal lay like raw wounds across his words. "I try so fucking hard…"

"Try. Harder."

Schuldig's eyes stung. Brad hated him. He'd tried, goddamn it, he had tried, but it wasn't good enough. He'd tried to stay away from drugs, even fags and booze for a while. He'd tried to be responsible and mature, for Brad. He'd tried to be what Brad wanted: an equal, an adult, a peer.

Bradley was struggling not to swallow his tongue. His words were ringing around his head, but it wasn't him saying them. His father, oh god, his father had said the same. So many times, the same mantra: 'not good enough, try harder, not good enough, try harder…' He'd tried so hard he'd given up. Staring at Schuldig, he saw that, he saw himself. Giving up. And the worst part was Bradley hadn't realised that Schuldig had had something to give up on. He hadn't recognised that the teen had been trying.

"_"  
  
"Don't," Schuldig said levelly. He stared at Brad slowly, up and down, then turned and walked out of the room. Bradley let him go.

Schuldig couldn't appreciate his victory. Sure, he'd gotten away without punishment, but he'd quit. He'd never done that before. He'd quit on Brad, he'd quit on the idea that Brad might come round, and he'd quit on himself. For the first time in weeks he silently joined the multitude of students moving towards lessons, automatically selecting the appropriate file of silent bodies. Inside, they were anything but silent. Gratefully, but not joyfully, Schuldig opened his mind to them. It was better than being inside his own head.

* * *

Anger curled, dry and cool, in the pit of Nagi's stomach. It waited like a snake, ready for the slightest provocation. It might flare to burning rage or implode into icy hatred. Outwardly Nagi was calm, collected, empty. Inwardly the anger was filling him, uncoiling through every vein and artery, filling him until he felt more whole than he had in years.

He'd hated himself, for a while, for letting this happen. Swinging drastically between self-loathing and self-pity, Nagi had cried himself to sleep more times than he could count. Why did this always happen to him? Why did people think he'd make a good fuck toy? Was it his fault?

No.

Nagi was, by nature, pragmatic and thoughtful. 'Get over yourself' a voice snarled from the pit of his memory. And he had. Nagi was over himself, and sick of being under other people. 

He had no qualms about killing. The last thing many grown men had seen was the blank face, beautiful dark eyes blinking blue at them, and then their neck snapped. Grey-green eyes haunted Nagi at night, sometimes actual as the boy came to him, sometimes in his twisting nightmares. It wasn't much to go on, but it was a start.

Nagi had started to narrow down the odds. Right now he was angry. Soon he would take his revenge, he was be filled with burning rage, douse it with cold hatred, slake his thirst for revenge on blood. His fellow inmates saw it in his eyes, felt it in his thoughts. Nagi was angry. It might take months, years, to find out which of the mindless drones had the individuality to rape him, but Nagi was patient. He stared at their eyes, and they stared at him.

The other students thought Nagi was odd. Soon, he would get even.


	28. And Punishment

**Chapter Twenty-Seven – And Punishment**

About a fortnight later Schuldig sought out Nagi as the 'phys' boys were trooping towards their dormitories. With a nudge and a wink Schuldig convinced the second year in charge to let him have Nagi for a bit. He dragged the tiny boy away from the relentless marching columns of students to a doorway that led outside.

Nagi stared around the tiny area Schuldig had brought him to. The door was placed there to give access to the outside raised septic tank, and the smell was bordering on overpowering, but there was a handful of spring flowers, a square of darkening blue sky and a general sense of being much more free than one got anywhere else in Rosenkreuz. Unbeknown to both students, this was where Bradley had picked flowers for Tanya, many, many years ago.

"You've been avoiding me," Schuldig accused, unaware of Nagi's developing ability to understand most of what he was saying. "Someone hurt you and you didn't come to me. That pisses me off."

Nagi said nothing and thought determinedly in Japanese, carefully trying to avoid giving away that he was beginning to understand Schuldig's rants.

"You're mine, Nagi, and I don't like people hurting my people. If someone laid a finger on Brad I'd be after them like a shot, and I'm going to do the same for you. Tell me who raped you and I will rip their fucking throat out."

If only it had been his throat doing the fucking, Nagi thought wryly, rather than mine. Last night had been different, in ways that were simultaneously infinitely better than any form of rape Nagi endured before and infinitely worse because he couldn't detach himself like he always had before. Like the egg mayonnaise sandwich Rammi had scrounged for him, months ago, the taste still lay on his tongue, slimy and warm and slightly salty. Nagi's stomach lurched at the memory.

Schuldig was staring at him. "Nagi?" he said slowly. "How much do you understand?"

Nagi widened his eyes and shrugged and shook his head, but Schuldig was no longer fooled. He produced the Japanese-German dictionary and showed it to Nagi. "I'm trying to learn your language," Schuldig said, still speaking very slowly. "Have you learnt mine?"

Nagi held up a hand, thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. Schuldig smiled and nodded.

"Can you tell me who hurt you?"

Nagi shook his head. "No know," he murmured, voice steady.

Schuldig frowned. He handed the book to Nagi who gripped it tightly and reached out to rest one hand on Nagi's forehead, trying to let the kid know what he was about to do. Memories were always tricky.

Nagi jerked backwards. "Rape," he muttered.

"I know that," Schuldig sighed. I just want to see if I can work out who." He reached out again but Nagi backed away, shaking his head vehemently.

"Head… rape." He flicked through the dictionary desperately. "Mind rape. Thought rape." Schuldig flinched with each phrase. He knew that that was exactly what he did, but it had never bothered him before. He realised that he wanted to earn Nagi's trust, his respect, his companion ship, if he couldn't have any of that from Brad. He was lonely.

The door swung open and smacked into the wall with a bang. Rammi stood there. "Leave him alone," he snapped at Schuldig, reaching a hand out to Nagi. Nagi paused, looking from one would be protector to the other. They both claimed to want to help. They both claimed they wanted to be his friend. They had both let slip that they saw him as someone they owned.

Nagi stared at both, looking slowly from one to the other. Schuldig reached out to him as well.

"Nagi, you can't trust him," Schuldig urged. "I know what he'd thinking. He wants to use you, to steal your pow- Huh? You can do that?" this last question was addressed to Rammi, who stolidly ignored it.

"Nagi, he lies. I can feel it. He said so himself, you are his. You don't want this. Who took the trouble to learn your language?" Rammi spoke in Japanese, trying to win Nagi's trust. "Who brought you extra food? Who owes you their life?"

Nagi laughed. It was harsh and bitter, and as the sun slipped behind the Austrian mountains and a late spring frost began to form, it was hard to say which was colder, Nagi or the air. He gave a tiny, contemptuous smile.

"Nagi not yours, and Nagi not yours," he addressed them in turn. "Nagi mine." There was a creaking and an ominous sloshing sound. The two older boys, about the same age, turned. With a slow, drawn out crash, the septic tank collapsed. A wave of raw sewage hit Schuldig and Rammi. Nagi was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Brad opened the door to his apartment with a relief that was remarkably short lived. Schuldig had come back; perhaps he'd forgiven him? No, Schuldig just needed to use his shower. Not even the most hard-hearted of bastard could have turned away the sodden figure in the doorway, though those who thought cleanliness was next to godliness might have.

Brad waved Schuldig in and grabbed a mop to chase after him as the shit covered teen made a dash for the bathroom. Brad flinched as he heard Schuldig vomit, but was appreciative when he heard the shower start going at full tilt. Before long steam was billowing out from under the ill-fitted door and the stench was beginning to lessen.

Almost two hours passed before Schuldig emerged, naked and shameless. Brad shook his head ruefully and tossed him a towel from the airing cupboard. Schuldig used it to dry his hair, now back to it's usual orange as opposed to the dank brown it had been when he arrived. It took a lot of will power on Brad's behalf to keep his eyes on Schuldig's face.

"Schuldig…" Brad began awkwardly. "The other day… I was, perhaps, a little harsh. No doubt you have been trying, and well, I shouldn't push you like that."

Schuldig frowned vaguely at him, then pulled the towel away from his head. Brad flinched. Schuldig had had the previously white towel wrapped around his ears.

"An apology?" Schuldig queried. "Hm!" He looked quite pleased with himself, but said nothing more until something occurred to him. "Crawford, is there a talent that can, you know, steal other talents?"

Brad sighed, disliking the use of his surname. Schuldig, it seemed, was nowhere near forgiving him. "Yes, Schuldig, there is, but it's incredibly rare. 'Leeches', people with that gift are nicknamed. There hasn't been one at Rosenkreuz since I've been here. They're not usually recognised, as they pick up someone else's talent early on and use that for the rest of their life. It doesn't occur to them to try and pick up someone else's."

"How do they do that, pick up talents? I mean, do they kill the other person, or knock them out, or just, you know, touch them?" Schuldig moved closer, perching on the back of a chair so that as long as Brad remained sitting he was at eyelevel with Schuldig's groin. With a suppressed groan Brad stood up and walked around Schuldig so that he was no longer exposed to that specific area of attention. Unfortunately, Schuldig turned too.

"It varies from leech to leech. Generally they just have to concentrate and preferably be in close contact with their victim. I suppose there is one here? It's the only reason I can think of for you to suddenly bring this up?"

"Ja, there is. That Indian guy stalking Nagi. Rammi. If it was just touch, he'd have stolen the gift already, but… what happens to the other person, Brad, the one who loses their talent?" Schuldig's brows knitted in concern.

"Nothing, as far as a I know. Sometimes they don't even lose their talent. There aren't many leeches, so it hasn't really been studied. It's possible that by merely being in proximity Rammi can share Nagi's gift. Has he being trying to gain Nagi's trust?" Brad folded his hands together, linking his fingers, in front of him. It had the dual advantages of looking pensive and professional whilst also hiding the growing bulge in his trousers.

"I guess so," Schuldig sighed. "Nagi doesn't trust me anymore. I gave him that dictionary, by the way. Actually, Nagi doesn't trust him either. He knocked the sewage on both of us and pulled a vanishing act."

"He's a bright child," Brad mused.

"He's a fucking child prodigy," Schuldig corrected lazily. "Look, I'll find out what this leech does to nab Nagi's gift, and you get him, right? Take it to Hertz, tell him you had a vision or I read his mind and we'll nail the bastard."

Brad sighed as something else occurred to him. "It won't be nearly that easy. To be a leech you need at least one psychic parent. Most of them are bred, but don't last long. If Rammi's a leech there's an extremely high chance his father or mother is an Estet operative."

"So I find out who, and we deal from there. I mean, as long as it's not Hertz, it's okay, right?" 

Brad gave a dismissive shrug. "We need more information," he said blandly. "Now, do you recall that I was looking for you the other day?"

"Yes, Crawford," Schuldig gave him a scathing look.

"You and I are going to London."

Schuldig was about to make another snide comment when the words caught up with him. "London? Why? Both of us?"

"I believe that is what is implied in the phrase 'you and I', Schuldig," Brad smirked. "I have had a vision of another potential student, and they have requested I locate him. There is some question as to whether the boy is actually talented or just a freak, which is why I suggested you accompany me." Brad's face said nothing, but inwardly he was a mess. He'd made the suggestion before he and Schuldig had fallen out. He wondered why he hadn't seen the brief but resonant argument coming.

"So, London. In England. Cool." Schuldig seemed pleased to be included. Brad allowed himself a sliver of hope.

"We will meet him on the Baker Street underground. His name is Jei and he has dark red hair, darker than yours. He… I… Something is going to happen," Brad finished lamely. "We're going to have to make a quick exit. Be ready."

Schuldig sneered at him. "Right now?" he asked sarcastically. "Oh, I'm so very ready for bad 'things' that might happen."

Brad sighed. Schuldig was still upset, very upset. He'd pushed too hard and Schuldig had given up trying to win his approval. So Schuldig was punishing him by being outwardly cold, for Schuldig at least. And it hadn't even occurred to Brad that Schuldig had wanted his approval.

"Not approval," Schuldig said softly. "I don't give a damn about your approval. Just… a bit of trust, a little respect, that was all." He shrugged awkwardly. "I don't like the way you think about me. It's the same way as everyone else."

Brad stared at him. "Well, you didn't do much to dissuade me," he said uncomfortably.

Schuldig folded his arms and fell silent. He wanted to object, wanted to complain. He was hurt, naturally, but if Brad hadn't got it by now he never would. He had done everything to dissuade Brad, he'd gone out of his way to, but Brad hadn't taken a blind bit of notice.

"Don't give up," Brad murmured, almost below hearing. Schuldig's head snapped up, but he didn't say anything. He stood up and walked past Brad to the bedroom to find something to wear, not even bothering to sway for Brad's benefit. It wasn't lost on Brad, and he suddenly found it hard to breathe. It was worse than any beating, any scolding, anything his father had ever said. It can as a shock, knowing that Schuldig's approval meant more to him than his father's had. And, just as with his father, he'd lost what small chance he ever had of obtaining that approval.

Tum-te-tum… Sorry I've kept Farf's fans waiting so long, but hopefully you'll appreciate his entrance. It's very… him, I think. 

'New Rules New Ruler' (one of my other fics) **Spoiler** – do not read if you haven't read NRNR, it spoils a twist towards the end of the fic: 

Hmm, guess Tash isn't quite so unique in her gift, though she's much stronger than any other leech, and can store multiple talents, which others can't. Yeah, I've just decided that ^_^. Tash's method is dependent on her ability to possess others and kill them, while other leeches tend to be a bit less drastic in their absorption. We'll see how Rammi goes about it later on… 


	29. Student Bodies

**Chapter Twenty-eight – Student Bodies**

And finally, for all those Farf lovers who stuck with me this far (and it's been a long journey already) here comes your reward. Farfarello arrives, in his full psychopathic heretical zealot glory. If you've read 'Deos Immortales' you may recognise this scene, if not… well, the fic's not very good. Sorry. I like this entrance though. 

It was cold. It was raining. It was smoggy. There were a lot of miserable people milling around. It was getting dark. They'd been waiting for hours. Schuldig's feet were killing him. Brad's suit was ruined. Jei was late.

Schuldig was listening to 'Baker Street' over and over again, and every time the sax solo started he would begin to sway so that they were getting odd looks. Brad sighed and ran a sweaty hand through greasy hair. Their accommodation was being paid for by Rosenkreuz, which meant they were staying at an overbooked B&B stuck between a freight railway and a council estate full of teenage mothers and loutish hooligans. The water didn't run, the lights didn't work and neither had slept. It hadn't helped that they were sharing not only a room but also a bed.

Schuldig had lain with his back to Brad, emphatically curled on his side. He'd even worn clothes to bed. Brad had lain on his back, fingers dug into the mattress, trying desperately to ignore the regular breathing of the man next to him. He couldn't sleep, not with Schuldig so close. He'd never expected this night to come, when he'd be unable to offer himself to Schuldig because he feared rejection. Schuldig, rejecting him? Never happen, right? He'd never expected to want Schuldig so much. Why did he have to come to terms with this now?

Dark circles ringed Brad's eyes as a result of the unresolved sexual tension that had kept him awake and horny all night. He shot a sideways look at Schuldig, who was humming and dancing quite happily alone on the platform.

Brad frowned. They really were alone now. Jei's train had been delayed between stations, and up until a few minutes ago the platform had been crowded with businessmen and women desperate to get home. Schuldig gave him a supercilious smile.

"We don't want company," he said enigmatically as the train pulled into the station. Brad was torn between apprehension and pride in his protégé. To convince over a hundred cynical workers, worn to the bone by the daily grind, tired of life and living, that they needed to be somewhere other than the station they found themselves at twice a day… it was quite a feat.

The train slid to a ponderous stop. Schuldig removed the personal stereo and tucked the headphones into his pocket. Brad straightened up. The doors slid open and a wave of blood sloshed out on the tracks.

"Sorry, got bored," Jei said with shrug, stepping out from among a soft pile of bodies to the only empty space of floor in the carriage, moving stealthily towards the door. An arm fell out on to the track and he kicked a torso out of his way. Every inch of his clothes was drenched a deep scarlet by the blood. There was no way he could walk through London like that.

Schuldig was staring at him unabashedly. A smear of blood decorated Jei's left cheek like war paint. Schuldig walked towards him and dipped his fingers into an empty chest cavity and painted a matching smear on his other cheek. Jei gave him an odd look. Brad's stomach was objecting violently to the piles of lifeless corpses surrounding Jei's feet, hiding his legs up to his knees in places as he picked his way towards the exit.

No one else was getting off of the train. Brad frowned. A one hour delay. Surely… even if Jei wasn't talented Estet were going to be pleased as punch by this killing machine. Brad didn't catch the look Schuldig shot him. Schuldig was fuming inwardly. Jei was not another weapon. That was all Brad saw them as, resources to be tapped. Schuldig for reconnaissance, Nagi for brute strength, and Jei for mindless slaughter.

"It wasn't mindless, was it?" Schuldig asked very quietly, out of Brad's hearing. Jei shook his head with a smile.

"T'ey are t'e lambs o' God," he lilted.

"Lambs to the slaughter," Schuldig smirked. Jei nodded.

Brad beckoned anxiously. "They have CCTV," he hissed. "You can wipe memories willy-nilly, Schuldig, and I suggest you do, but there's nothing we can do about the footage." Schuldig turned to look at him, then stared around the station. In one dusty corner sat an old camera. He gave it the finger.

The three of them exited the station and Brad dragged Jei into the first public toilet he could find. Schuldig was sweating slightly and rubbing his head. Too many enquiring minds to make look the other way. Brad handed him some aspirin Can't work out how to spell paracetamol correctly! Or perhaps the spellchecker just doesn't like it and locked the doors. A quick search of the supply cupboard produced enough toilet rolls to soak up the excess blood and produce a hose fixture to douse Jei.

As the pink water swirled into a long drain stretched the length of one wall originally intended as a urinal, Brad despaired of ever getting Jei in a presentable state. His clothes, which had probably started off white, though it was now hard to tell, were the permanent pink of the apron of a clumsy butcher. Caked blood flaked from beneath his fingernails and clung to his eyelashes. By now someone would have discovered the massacre on the train, and if anyone saw Jei like this…

Schuldig, still suffering from a migraine, dug into the Janitor's cupboard again and produced some overalls. Brad frowned. There was no way Jei could wear those once they left the station, and besides, they were far too large for the fifteen-year-old boy. Schuldig stroked Jei's cheek absent-mindedly, and Jei gave him a speculative look.

"Are ye a sodomite?" Jei asked candidly.

Schuldig gave him a sensual leer. "When the mood takes me," he said huskily, promise lacing his nasal tones. Brad's heart skipped a beat. Schuldig had used that tone on him so many times.

"How are we going to get out of here?" Brad snapped. His temper was frayed and his patience worn thin.

Jei glanced around the tiny rest room then slammed his hands into the mirror. Glass fell in a fractures rain on all of them, and Jei snatched a few extra shards from the hail to force them into his skin. Blood began to ooze and spurt from the multiple injuries the Irishman had inflected on himself. The damp clothes absorbed the blood all over again and he looked worse than before.

Before Brad could say anything Schuldig had flipped the lock on the door and dashed out, calling for help, an ambulance, a doctor… Brad felt a modicum of pride in the two teens. Jei just stood there, arms out, bleeding happily to death. Schuldig was creating a panic to rival that on the station. No one thought to put two and two together and link the two crises; the dead on the train and the bleeding boy.

Paramedics carried Jei into the ambulance. Schuldig jumped in after him and Brad sought out his car so he could follow them closely. Schuldig needed to keep the ambulance crew from wondering why Jei's clothes were soaked and why not all of the blood was fresh. Jei just had to sit and bleed.

They had been forcing their way through the rush hour traffic for about ten minutes when the ambulance suddenly swung into a tiny alley, almost broad siding a parked van. Brad followed a little more cautiously. The ambulance slammed into a wall and the back opened. In a sight more than vaguely reminiscent of the tube train doors opening blood sloshed out of the ambulance and Jei and Schuldig hopped out. Jei was covered in bandages, which in turn were covered with blood. Judging by the freshly crimson interior of the ambulance, the blood wasn't Jei's.

Schuldig and Jei climbed into the back of the black car. Brad wrinkled his nose and sighed as blood began to stain the seats. Rosenkreuz would make him pay to have the vehicle reupholstered. Schuldig shoved a tape into the machine and Bohemian Rhapsody bellowed out of the tinny speakers in the front, almost deafening Brad.

"There're… THERE ARE CLOTHES AND WET WIPES IN THE BACK," Brad yelled over the loud music. 

* No need to shout, * Schuldig scolded him telepathically. Brad shook his head and began to weave his way towards Dover. No airline in existence was going to let Jei on, so they'd just have to count on mild weather for the ferry journey.

* * *

They had put Jei in the 'physical' boy's dormitory. When no one came to shower the next morning various members of staff were sent to investigate, Brad among them. He had a vision of what would happen as soon as they opened the door. He groaned.

"What is it?" a young woman asked. She 'taught' girls Phys Ed.

"Don't stand too close to the door," Brad warned.

She gave him a strange look but heeded his advice. The boy who had been 'nominated' to go first gave a cry of disgust as the blood washed over his feet, soaking up the ankles of his trousers. The girl glanced over at Brad.

"Third time," Brad commented. "It's reaching a point where it's getting almost predictable."

"And you're being a seer has nothing to do with you knowing to stand all the way over there?" she asked wryly, shaking her feet as she stepped daintily into the room.

Sitting in the centre of a large pile of bodies was Jei, knife clutched between his teeth. Brad frowned. They'd removed all weapons from his body as soon as he had arrived. Strip search as only Rosenkreuz staff knew how. And yet, Brad made a quick mental count, there were… seventeen knives in various bodies throughout the room. It was plausible that some of the other boys had been armed, but Brad had no doubt that Jei had been carrying most of them himself.

Jei gestured to a boy with his throat slit and hands removed. Studying the staff with yellowed eyes, he commented offhandedly, "He prayed."


	30. Alliances Made

**Chapter Twenty-nine – Alliances made**

Typing everything Jei says with an Irish accent, especially when I haven't many Irish people to listen to and study the accents of, is a bit awkward, so let's pretend it faded pretty quick once he was surrounded by such a conglomeration of foreign accents, okay? Basically, I keep forgetting to do it anyway, so you're better off using your imagination. ^_^ 

Schuldig stared around the white and crimson room. There was blood sprayed across the floor, the walls, even the ceiling. Sitting cross-legged on the floor was the teen from whence it came. His hair was the same colour as the blood. Red-gold eyes studied the broken tile slick with blood as it tug into pale flesh.

"Sick!" Schuldig exclaimed. Jei seemed to finally notice him. "That's so gross! What the fuck are you doing to yourself? Why!?"

Jei shrugged. "I was made in God's image. His image." Jei's lip lifted in a disgusted sneer and he went back to trying to cut his arm off with the broken tile. Schuldig snatched it from him and tossed it away.

"What have you got against him? I mean, he doesn't even fucking exist!" Schuldig crouched to look at Jei's arm, checking to see how much damage the youth had managed to do to himself.

Jei slapped him. "Of course He exists. Who created us? What is our purpose? Why is there suffering? Answer those," he snapped.

"Coincidence," Schuldig said promptly.

"He exists," Jei said, his voice dangerously low. "He will smite the unbelievers. Come judgement day you will regret your words."

Schuldig gave him a bemused frown. "Because he won't be just a little bit pissed at you slaughtering loads of people?"

Jei chuckled. "I do it to hurt Him as He hurts us."

"You're a regular little Lucifer, you know that? And hey, a few more unbelievers ought to piss Him off a bit. Spread the atheism." Schuldig rolled his eyes and stood, calves cramping as he stretched. He offered a hand to Jei. "Move, you're blocking the drain. No one knows what to do with you. I've 'talked' the guys in the Labs into not cutting you to bits to see what makes you tick, but you might want to hold off the massacring for a bit."

Jei shook his head in defeat. "You know nothing," he said. "Is religion discouraged here?"

"It wasn't until you killed that guy for praying. Suddenly everyone who believed in God is feeling extremely discouraged." Schuldig found a clean bit of wall to lean on. Jei didn't seem to have a problem leaning in his own blood.

"God created us. God created this world. God created suffering. Does He sound benevolent and compassionate to you? I punish him the way He punishes us, taking what is His, what He loves, and destroying it." Jei slammed his fist into the wall a few times and broke off another bit of tile. Studying his pallid flesh, he chose a relatively bare portion of thigh and started scraping at the skin.

"So because He loves you you're intent on destroying yourself?" Schuldig asked, firmly convinced the kid was loopy.

"He both loves and hates us all. He is omniscient. He knows all, and so feels all, and so loves and hates all things. This is why He gives us so much, and takes it away again."

Schuldig frowned, trying to get his head around this piece of purely nonsensical logic. He touched Jei's mind lightly.

* What? * Jei asked

* Huh? Oh, just trying to, you know, see it from your side, * Schuldig told him, a little embarrassed at having his light probe caught by the Irishman.

* I'm insane. You won't find much of any use in here, * Jei told him firmly, pushing him out.

Schuldig grimaced. Jei wasn't talented, not in the traditional sense, but he had the potential to be a null. His twisted mind acted as a natural barrier for most kinds of psychic invasion. He'd probably prove just as much an enigma to the telempaths, and maybe even clairvoyants, as he did to Schuldig. Schuldig could 'see' into Jei's head, through the 'glass', and what he saw was a ball of wool. All of the thoughts followed each other consecutively, but they were tangled up. Most people were a woven mat or hundreds of single fibres, thousands of unconnected thoughts at once, but ordered and logical. Still, to Schuldig, Jei's mind made more sense, once you'd followed the single strand from end to end.

Schuldig shook his head to rid himself of the mental images that fouled up his concentration. No matter what metaphor he applied he couldn't accurately describe his talent any more than Brad could his. It was like explaining 'red' to a blind man. It just was, a sense like the other five that couldn't be explained in terms of the other five. Trying to just confused all involved and left Schuldig looking for things that didn't exist, like glass walls and balls of wool.

"Still in there?" Jei asked, amused by Schuldig's long silence.

"Ja. So, God is, basically, all things, you were saying? So He's hate and love and… hey, isn't He the devil as well?" Schuldig frowned. "So He opposes Himself and tried to overthrow Himself… He's nuttier than you!"

Jei smiled. "You're finally getting it," he observed.

* * *

Nagi stared at the member of staff. It was the man in charge of physical education, a telekinetic like himself. His body was well past its prime but Nagi got the impression he'd never used it much anyway, always relying on his talent. Nagi's lips curled in distaste.

"Come now, boy, you must know how it works by now. Or would you rather visit Hertz?" the Brazilian coach wheedled. His name was Pablo, he was overweight and balding, and he'd had his eye on Nagi for a while. However, his eyes were brown.

"Hertz," Nagi said promptly, amused by the look of shock on Pablo's face.

"You… you don't understand me properly," the man floundered, jowls quivering. Nagi watched a sweat drop slip into one pendulous fold to be lost in amongst the greasy skin. Waiting for that drop to reappear and slide down the pockmarked chin was like dropping a stick on one side of a bridge and waiting to see how long it would take to appear on the other side, but accidentally picking a bridge over a railway instead of a river.

"No. Not you, Hertz. He will beat me, not rape." Funny how 'rape' had been one of the first words Nagi had picked up.

"Senor Pablo?" A cultured voice called. Nagi's stomach flipped. "You are required in the great hall."

"We will finish this… one on one training later," Pablo told Nagi. He spun around and swept out. Nagi watched the folds of fat as they kept turning once Pablo had stopped, orbiting under their own momentum. It was bordering on hypnotic.

"Nagi? Are you okay?" Rammi jogged over, turban on the verge of unravelling. He'd clearly been looking for the younger boy for quite some while. The conversation changed from German to Japanese.

"Good," Nagi told him. "Thank you."

"I've been looking for you for quite some while," Rammi told him. Nagi smirked inwardly. "Look, I won't press you, but I want you to know my offer to help still stands. I'm in different classes to you, I know more students than you, I'm a telempath. I can help you find this bastard you're looking for."

Nagi raised an eyebrow. "You could tell if someone was lying?" he asked softly.

"Yes, if you want. Do you have any suspicions?" Rammi smiled at him, pausing into front of an exercise bike to study his reflection and adjust his turban. Nagi wondered how he got away with the unorthodox piece of uniform. Rosenkreuz didn't exactly respect religious beliefs.

"All males," Nagi said with a tired smile. "I'm whittling it down, rather than picking individuals and proving them innocent one by one. So far I've been able to cancel all females and everyone with brown eyes."

"What about hair colour?" Rammi asked, pointedly blinking his own deeply brown eyes.

"I don't know. Dark, I think, but I don't want to be too narrow-minded. I think the eyes are grey-green, but they could be hazel or blue or even a very pale brown." Nagi followed Rammi out of the gymnasium into yet another grey corridor. Their footsteps echoed behind them.

"I can tell who has and hasn't had sex," Rammi told him. "It's not an exact science, but in general, virgins are easy to spot. Also the extremely homophobic."

"So a gay, bisexual, bi-curious or just plain horny male or hermaphrodite; probably with dark blonde, auburn, brown or black natural hair colour; blue, green, grey, light brown, hazel or combination eyes and the ability to get into the 'phys' boys dorm," Nagi ran down the list with an ironic despair. "I will find him," he told Rammi. "He will suffer."

"Good," Rammi said. "Make it public. Let them know not to touch you."

"Make it public, make it painful," Nagi's eyes narrowed. "The screams will echo through these walls."

Rammi paused in midstep as he finally wormed his way into Nagi's emotions. What he felt scared him. He suddenly found himself hoping Nagi never found this boy. He hoped Nagi would die before leaving Rosenkreuz. That sort of hatred… Only Hertz could rival it.

* * *

Brad sat down politely in Hertz's office, trying not to think of who he was sitting on. The 'leather' and 'ivory' creaked as it settled and grew used to his weight. Hertz was chewing on the nib of a pen.

"You managed to bring in the Irish boy despite complications," Hertz finally observed, having kept Brad sitting in silence for almost ten minutes. "You have experience with a range of psychic talents and have proved most capable in handling one of our most tempestuous students. You speak a variety of languages and manage not to kill every dignitary you meet, unlike most people I've come into contact with while working here."

Hertz sat back, folding his arms. "I wish to make clear right here, right now, that I am utterly against what I am about to say. I don't trust you, Crawford. You are ambitious and clever, two things which should be avoided in combination at all costs. Your loyalty has always been questionable and Frau Dubois's vision only confirmed my suspicions. But, unfortunately, there are people yet higher than I in the chain of command, and this has come from the top.

"You have three years to prepare for an assignment most of us dream of. You will be vital in making Estet's dreams come true and plans to fruition. You're going to prepare the way for the Summoning."

Brad stared. He heard rumours, vague hearsay and childish exaggerations, but he'd never thought… The Summoning. Something big really was going down, and he was going to be part of it. This was promotion beyond his wildest dreams. If he did well, he would have all the power he ever dreamt of. If not, well, dead men bear no grudges.

Hertz raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

"I… I am honoured. Flattered. Amazed." Brad rubbed his head. Flighty dreams of power and dominance were all very well, but he had to make them come true first. "I am honoured to have been picked to honour Estet in this way, and I will do all I can…"

"I don't doubt it. You're a power-hungry supercilious sycophantic little brat," Hertz told him bluntly. "I don't like you and I don't trust you, but you're not the only one gifted with visions and someone at head office seems to think you're the only man for the job. I've sent numerous recommendations that they reconsider and Frau Dubois's vision has been recorded in minute detail. But they still call for you."

"I will do the best I can on Estet's behalf," Brad murmured, for once, really meaning it.

"They told us where to find you, in Japan. They told us to collect you. Normally we wouldn't dream of collecting anyone over sixteen, especially if they've already got their talent under control, but they insisted on you. This has been in the works for centuries, Bradley Crawford. Don't mess it up."

Brad frowned. "There are a lot of students over sixteen at the moment," he pointed out cautiously.

"None were over sixteen when they started. Generally we take twelve to sixteen here at Rosenkreuz. Any younger and we have other facilities for them. That telekinetic is another exception, also insisted on by Estet." Hertz shrugged. "He's as bad as you, but twice as precocious."

Brad's lips quirked into a wry smile. "He's immensely powerful, from what I hear."

"Ja…" Hertz gave Brad a level stare. "I know what you want," he said slowly. "You want power, you want control, you want freedom. There's no such thing as freedom, Crawford, and it would do you good to remember it. We are beholden to each other, all of us." Bitterness was seeping into Hertz's voice like water around a submarine's door. It was but a fraction of what would burst in when the hinges gave. "They'll give you a semblance of freedom, I don't doubt. You'll choose a team, you'll be given free rein, and you'll order your own affairs. I don't doubt you're capable of that. But remember who holds the leash. Governments, Estet, your team… There's no such thing as freedom."

"I won't forget that," Brad said honestly. "If I can't take my leash off, I want to hold somebody else's as well."

Hertz grunted. "Like the rest of us, Bradley. The bomb's only as good as the button, boy." He reached into a desk draw and drew out a dusty folder. "I've had this for years, waiting for their golden boy to turn up. I'd even prefer that Jei kid to you, but what I do to you is nothing compared with what they'd do to me if I kept this from you."

Brad frowned. "I was always under the impression I was expendable," he murmured. 

"You are," Hertz told him carelessly. "If you die, there'll be someone else. But until you do, yes, you're indispensable. You're just a tool, Bradley. You're the best tool, but if you lose the lock picks you can always make do with a hairpin." The dust file was reassuringly heavy in Brad's lap. "This organisation is huge, Bradley. There are more people in it than there are in America. We have the ability to make more psychics without depending on fate. If you don't perform, we'll kill you to leave pace for someone else."

Brad met Hertz's eye. "As long as I'm alive," he said quietly, "there's no one else, is there? It was an inalterable vision. Only my death can change it."

Hertz snorted. "Finally, the boy gets it." He waved one hand vaguely, and Brad realised he was gesturing for him to leave. He stood up, holding the file carefully. The two men stared at each other for a second, equals for the first time. Hertz smiled. Brad smiled.

After a curt nod and a proud saunter out of the room Brad collapsed against a wall, fighting hyperventilation. Sweet shit… They were putting him in charge of the end of the world. Stuff Hertz. Stuff that shit about freedom. Stuff Rosenkreuz.

Brad breathed deeply, enjoying the heady scent of fresh new power. In his hands he held the fate of the world.

He began to laugh.

I wasn't expecting that. Huh. Brad's gone mad. Cool. 


	31. Alliances Broken

**Chapter Thirty – Alliances Broken**

Schuldig jerked awake. Something was happening. It reminded him of Nagi's earthquake, almost a year ago now, in the way it touched every person in the area to a lesser or greater extent, and threatened to undermine the institution's very structure. Of course, it was a different structure that was suddenly on the verge of collapse, and that made Schuldig grin. An anarchist at heart, he revelled in the chaos that when felt certain would descend sooner or later.

He reached out with his mind, studying those around him. Perhaps the Telempaths had some inkling of what was going on, but for the most part the residents of Rosenkreuz were reacting at a subconscious level to something they couldn't even sense.

One mind was a blank to him, and this was the epicentre of the psychic quake. Brad… no, Crawford… Crawford's shields were so tight Schuldig had no hope of getting past them. Still, the shields themselves were telling, reinforced the selfishness and greed and desire. He had been given something he wasn't willing to share. There was only one thing Crawford wouldn't dream of letting others have: Power.

"We'll see about that," Schuldig told the tiled wall in front of him.

"See?" his companion growled sleepily.

"You and I," Schuldig told the redhead, "are going to paint the town red."

Jei opened both of his tawny eyes. "That was my idea," he objected. "To take vengeance on God-"

"No, Jei, not God. We're going to take something, yes, but not vengeance and not from God."

Jei regarded his lover with lazy indifference. If it wasn't god, it wasn't worth it. He went to roll over but Schuldig grabbed the youth's shoulder.

"Jei, if I get my way God is going to howl. Crawford's just been handed a whole heap of power. All power here is related to this summoning we're all supposed to be working towards, to rebuilding this 'empire'. So something's got to happen that changes the status quo and let's Estet do that, right? So Crawford's got that something. And if we steal that something, image what havoc we can wreak!"

"You're reasoning is flawed," Jei pointed out, but he was clearly interested again. Schuldig shrugged off the rebuke and started to get dressed.

"Do you mind if I sleep with Crawford?" Schuldig asked casually. Jei shrugged nonchalantly.

"Buggery, sodomy, sins," Jei smirked.

Schuldig had been surprised at first at how easily Jei had taken to the idea of homosexual sex. He was an attractive boy for all his scars, but Schuldig couldn't figure out if Jei returned this attraction. It didn't particularly bother him, since Jei was more than willing to do anything forbidden by the Bible, which turned out to be rather a lot of things, but Schuldig wondered whether he was just screwing the kid up even more.

Schuldig had taken to dropping into chat with Jei on a regular basis early on. Now that he was depriving himself of Brad's company he needed to be around someone who didn't think at him all the time.  The only thing Jei ever thought about was God anyway, and his tangled and warped mind made even that hard to decipher. He didn't mind being talked at for hours on end, and when Schuldig occasionally felt like talking to him he could hold up his end of the conversation with ease, much to Schuldig's surprise.

One day, out of the blue, Jei had asked to have sex with him. Flattered, Schuldig leapt at the chance. A lot of people took interest in him, but he'd never thought Jei would. The mood had been somewhat spoiled when Jei had carefully and methodically explained the reasoning behind his request, but Schuldig was still flattered at being chosen instead of, say, 'the sedative man'.

That had been two months ago. Since then they'd been sleeping together from time to time, usually when Schuldig was sick of his room mates or forgot to leave Jei's cell before visiting hours ended. He smirked. There hadn't even been 'visiting hours' until he'd taken such an interest in the Irish teen.

"Schuldig?" Jei hovered just behind his fellow redhead. "They're not going to let me out."

"It isn't a matter of let," Schuldig told him breezily. "In this world you have to take what you want when you want. We have power, Jei. And so does Crawford."

"So does God."

Schuldig grimaced, glad that Jei couldn't see his face. The guy was all right company but this obsession with God could get so dull! That and the 'I'm a victim' spiel. Schuldig had a sneaking suspicion that the reason Jei's mind was so snarled up was because he wasn't a victim, quite the opposite, in fact, but couldn't acknowledge it.

"We can take Crawford's power. We can't take God's. Not yet, anyway," Schuldig said impatiently.

Jei froze. "Yet?" he asked, voice dangerously low. "What is the nature of this power, then, that we are seeking from Crawford?"

"Knowledge. Knowledge is power, Jei. Like said, God is omniscient. All knowing equals all powerful, right?" Schuldig hoped Jei would accept his reasoning. 

"And what is it Crawford knows?" Jei wasn't fooled. Schuldig knew something. Knowledge is what people know. Schuldig could read minds. Schuldig knew what everyone else knew. Ergo, Schuldig knew everything there was to know, if he stretched far enough. If Schuldig knew all, he was omniscient. By Schuldig's own reasoning, this made him omnipotent. And that made him a friend worth having when you were fighting a one-man war against the only other omnipotent being.

"Something about the summoning," Schuldig said vaguely. "He's going to be there. I'm going to be there, Nagi's going to be there, and if I get my way you're going to be there too."

"Not if we're killed for misbehaviour," Jei pointed out. Schuldig stopped in mid step.

"Shit."

"We're not going to wreak havoc and mayhem and bleed Rosenkreuz dry, are we?" Jei said forlornly as Schuldig started stripping off again and climbed back into the small camp bed.

"One day," Schuldig reassured him. "Just not yet. We'll court Crawford's favour, I guess. And Nagi's. When they start letting you out again go and befriend the Japanese kid. I've already snared Crawford."

Jei lay down next to Schuldig and let the older boy start to explore his body. Sometimes he wondered if there was more to Schuldig's life than sex, but he didn't mind if there wasn't. God disapproved of pre-marital gay sex with minors, even if he was a minor giving consent.

"I wish I'd kept my mouth shut," Jei sighed.

Schuldig chuckled. "Yeah, but they'd have killed you if we'd gone ahead. I'm too unique to kill, but they don't need me sane."

"You're not sane," Jei pointed out.

"Neither are you."

"True enough."

* * *

Nagi stared at the computer printout. Three candidates. Rammi read it over his shoulder.

"Why don't we just kill all of them?" Rammi asked carelessly. "Saves time."

"That would stop it happening again," Nagi told him blandly, "but it wouldn't be revenge. Revenge is personal."

Rammi shivered. Nagi's dedication to this vengeance on his rapist still frightened him. He'd made several suggestions over the past few months of ways to dispatch the rapist, but Nagi had turned down every one. Nagi only wanted the one person dead. He wouldn't do it during rape, since no one else would see. He wanted it public and personal. Perhaps what frightened Rammi most was Nagi's complete disregard for his own safety. Nagi didn't give a damn if it was the newest first year or Hertz himself. He didn't care about being punished.

Nagi traced patterns on the laptop's chunky screen with weary fingers. This was his third laptop. He didn't know who was being so kind to him, but he did appreciate it. Some member of staff was keeping an eye on him, making certain he learnt German and English and kept up in lessons.

Rammi rubbed Nagi's shoulders gently. He wondered if he should tell Nagi to whom he owed this patronage, but he got the impression Nagi's respect would not be earned with kindness. Nagi didn't believe in kindness.

The truth was Rammi had no idea how to get Nagi's respect, or even liking. Nagi didn't believe any did anything for free, so if Rammi admitted to helping him then Nagi would assume he only did it to get something in return. If Rammi stood up for him Nagi would assume Rammi only did it so Nagi would do the same for him.

Of course, Nagi would be right, but Rammi had no intention of letting the boy now that. Nagi had to do everything willingly and freely, and that was going to be bloody difficult.

"What?" Nagi asked, turning to look at the older boy's pensive frown.

"Do you trust me?" Rammi asked.

"No." Rammi flinched slightly, enough for Nagi to notice. Nagi never suspected the almost suppressed look of hurt was solely for his benefit. "I trust no one," Nagi explained softly. "I've seen to much to rely on good nature and kindness. People are only nice as long as they feel like it. When it starts to cost them too much they take it away and you lose everything you've grown to depend on."

"Have I given you anything? Have I been nice to you?" Rammi asked. "I've always been frank, haven't I, Nagi? I need your protection, you need mine. This sort of dependency relies on a modicum of trust."

"I do see your point," Nagi said quietly. "This isn't about what you can spare and what will make you feel better about yourself. I can live with being used, I guess. So maybe I do trust you, but not much, I'm afraid."

"Why not much?"

"You rely on me. If you can get the same from someone else without that reliance you'd drop me. You can't depend on me always being there, or doing precisely what you wish. If we're both in danger I'm more likely to save myself than you." Nagi turned back to the laptop and opened a game, trying to ignore the ache in his heart. Being so practical hurt, sometimes. The truth hurt. Sometimes he wondered what it was like for those lucky children who got told the lies and stayed safe believing them.

"So, if there was a way in which I could have the same power as you, and you me, we'd be equals, and free. You wouldn't have to worry about me abandoning you for someone better," Rammi reasoned gently.

"No, you'd just abandon me altogether," Nagi said bitterly.

"What if I didn't? You'd still be a powerful ally. You have one power and I have another. If we both had both, we'd be twice as powerful. Me alone would only be equal to the two of us as we are now. We'd been better off together, but not dependent."

Nagi sighed and pushed the laptop away. He stood up and paced around Rammi's third year room, which had already lost its other occupants to the system. Leaning against one of the bunks he regarded Rammi steadily.

"What do you want?" he said tiredly. "I knew it would come to this, eventually, but I still don't know precisely what it is you're trying to take from me."

"Not take, Nagi, share. I'm what is vulgarly known as a 'leech'. I can share people's gifts. I can take a little of yours and you can take a little of mine." Rammi gazed at him imploringly. "All you have to do is give it willingly. If you let me in it will all be over in seconds."

"It's already over," Nagi snarled. "The clue is in the name 'leech'. You don't share, do you? Don't mistake me for a child, Rammi, not when I've lived more than you already."

Nagi stalked out of the room, the door slamming behind him. Rammi spat curses at him in his father's tongue, snarling insults in Hindi until his voice was hoarse. It did no good. Nagi was gone and all hope of absorbing his significant powers dashed. Rammi's curses turned to himself and he screamed self-abuse until his mother came to calm him down.

"I warned you, didn't I?" she murmured to her frustrated son, leading him out of his tantrum like she would out of a storm, with calm words and soothing rebukes. "I told you this was going to happen. I foresaw it."

* * *

Crawford's fingers drummed a nervous fandango on the documents, the rhythmic tapping soothing to his strained heart. When both heart and fingers were beating at the same pace, slow and steady and self-assured, he trusted himself to speak.

"Run that by me again?" he said quietly. He was sitting next to his kitchen table, legs crossed and one hand resting in his lap, the other elbow on the table as he rapped his nails on the sheaf of papers.

Schuldig rested the heels of his palms on the table and leant over the older man, face serious. "I saw that vision, second hand. We both know I'm going to be there. I want to know in what capacity."

"I'm sure that will become clear over time," Crawford said languidly.

"It's up to you," Schuldig warned. "You have a choice, either you take me willing and eager, or you take me as an antagonist. You know I'll make your life hell."

You already do, Brad thought to himself. He was a man torn asunder, personal motivations clashing with a deep-rooted regard for the man in front of him. He had no intention of sharing power, but Schuldig would never accept anything other than what he felt he had a right to, and more often than not that meant everything. If there was some way for Brad to have both, to have Schuldig and have power and have something similar to happiness…

"You can't do it alone," Schuldig said deceptively softly. 

Brad's head snapped up. "What?"

* You can't do it alone, * Schuldig repeated. * You can't rule the world on your own. There's too much of it. Why else has no one man ever managed it? Wise men make alliances, agree to split the spoils. *

* You're overlooking the point of those alliances and agreements. They are the means of gaining power, not the means of keeping it. Do you really think any of those petty dictators ever had any intention of keeping their word? * Brad shook his head with a cat-like grin. * I can do it alone, Schuldig. How can you defeat a man who knows your plan before you do?  I can employ people to deal with the paperwork, the peripherals. The only thing I learnt at Rosenkreuz was how to control people. Fear, respect, fanaticism, dependence… *

* You're bloated on your own ego, * Schuldig told him disparagingly. * You can't do it alone. You need people you can trust. The decision you make now will mean the difference between trusting me or fearing me, Bradley. You see, if I'm not with you, I'm against you. And my enemies don't last long. *

"Are you threatening me?" Brad was startled into speaking aloud. He chuckled. "Schuldig, you wouldn't have a hope in hell of taking me out."

"You can see the future, but I can read minds. The future ain't always certain, but I am." With that Schuldig suddenly wrapped both hands around Crawford's neck.

Crawford clawed at Schuldig's tightening fingers, struggling for breath. One flailing hand knocked his stack of documents into a blizzard of paper across the room. Why hadn't he seen this coming? Because the future was uncertain. His own emotions had made it so. If his arrogance, his pride, his power lust hadn't made his decision for him he and Schuldig would be allies. He'd pushed aside his care for the younger man and he was going to pay for that mistake with his life.

Schuldig let go.

"I'm not going to kill you yet," he said conversationally as Crawford collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath. "Hertz would kill me. He'd probably thank me first, but he'd be obliged to kill me and frankly I think he's just waiting for an excuse. We're both going to go higher and further than he ever will, and he knows it. But once I've graduated? We're on equal footing then, liebhaber, and you will live in fear of that day."

As the purple and black bruises made a necklace around Crawford's crushed windpipe and he spat up blood on the kitchen floor his only solace was Schuldig's bitter endearment. "We're on equal footing then, lover…"

Would you like some Schuldig/Farf action, like I did with Brad/Schu? It's up to you guys. If you want it, I'll write it. 


	32. Dreamless Sleep

**Chapter Thirty-One –** **Dreamless Sleep**

Guess what? This is going to be so much longer than New Rules New Ruler. Oh and the chapter titles are having less and less relevance. Really they're just decoration at the top of the page by now. Take the previous two chapters, for example. They could just as easily have been the other way around and it would have made as much sense. ^_^ Oh well. Onwards and upwards… Nagi finally gets his revenge here, but we're not done with Rammi yet. I kept expecting this chapter to be nastier than it is, but it's still deserving of it's R, IMO.

Have you ever screamed so hard your throat bled? So hard you couldn't stop coughing and the white tissues absorb scarlet roses in sprinkles and blotches? So hard you couldn't speak for a week?

Nagi lay on the bed, throat a pulpy mass of pain. An iron collar ran from his slender neck to the iron bedstead. The sheets were black silk, leaving his naked body contrasting and exposed. His eyes glowed like sapphires in dark purple rims. The stone walls kept the sound in, and he knew his absence would not be remarked upon. He was dead.

"You took your time, didn't you? You wanted to be so utterly certain," a smooth voice purred. It was the voice of thousands of years of aristocracy bred in velvet and stone, smooth and unyielding. Cultured decadence dripped off every word. If the bed Nagi lay on could speak, it would have a voice just like that, so it seemed only appropriate that its owner did.

"I'm not scared," Nagi said truthfully, each word shredding his tender throat.

"The fearless don't scream," the voice commented, amused by Nagi's newfound defiance. "Don't worry, I'm not going to kill you.

"I'm not scared of dying," Nagi said bluntly, then admitted, "I just don't want to."

"Clever boy." A shadow detached itself from the liquid black of the corners and glided to sit on the bed. Nagi frowned. "I'm a descendant of the Marquis de Sade, you know," the voice purred. "Though perhaps you might already have guessed."

Nagi said nothing, just frowned up at the darkness. It was literal, thick and unyielding. The harder Nagi stared, the less he could see. He hadn't been afraid of the dark since he ran away from home, but this was solid and enveloping. He shrank back, cowering amongst the sheets.

"You're an illusionist," Nagi sighed, remembering. "That's why no one ever saw you come in or go out." It was that realisation that had led him to this point. There had only been three illusionists on the database, one an American teenaged boy, one an African middle aged woman and the third a German man of indiscriminate age who had recently returned from a long trip abroad.

"Partly," the darkness gave an elegant shrug. "Most people don't see anything here, because they don't look."

"I noticed," Nagi murmured.

"You did well to find me," the young man shed some of the darkness and Nagi could see sharply intelligent grey eyes watching him steadily. "No one else has ever figured it out. That's why I brought you down here, so I can keep you from going to the authorities. If you told them who I was there are enough members of staff who suffered as you have to ensure my death."

"How long have you been here?" Nagi asked curiously. "Your record seemed… long. You seem very youthful for you age."

A peal of delighted laughter rippled through the chamber. "Dear boy! I am an illusionist, or have you forgotten so soon? Everything is mere trickery."

"So, how old are you?" As the shadows peeled away Nagi's fear went with them and he sat up to face the languidly feline European.

"I am as old as Herr Hertz. Psychic talents tend to run in families, though he has no idea of who I really am. He thought I died when we were but boys."

"You are Hertz-san's brother?"

"Twin. Only the man who brought me in ever saw the similarity, and I killed him before he could reveal it."

"I feel very privileged," Nagi said candidly. "But surely, you have nothing to fear. If others should endanger your life your brother would protect you?"

"The Ancient ones do not approve of putting family ties before Estet. And my dear brother so desperately seeks their approval. My only amnesty lies in my talent, for illusionists are rare." The man shook his head. "That might keep me alive as it has that obnoxious whore Schuldig, but I have made many enemies. If you were to reveal me to them I would earn a knife to the back some dark night."

"They're willing to risk their lives to take yours," Nagi murmured.

"Are you?" the man asked, smugly aware of the impending answer.

"I don't want to die," Nagi repeated his earlier sentiment, "but I am barely trained and strong emotions tend to make my powers go haywire." He held the man's eyes, the challenge implicit in his words. "I am very powerful, and the occasional accident may be overlooked, especially if the unfortunate has many enemies."

"You may have gotten away with that in the past, but telekinetics are common here," the man sneered.

"I have a role to play," Nagi said confidently.

"What, in the summoning? I hardly think so." He snorted with derision.

Nagi reached around his neck and felt the lock on the chain. It was small and complex, too awkward to be manipulated without being seen. This didn't bother Nagi. The collar wrenched itself apart and slammed into the wall, chipping the ancient stone.

"I am powerful," Nagi reiterated. The man tried to move, but Nagi had his body in a vice-like grip. "You see, I could have killed you any time, but I wanted people to know you suffered. I wanted people to see your humiliation."

"You couldn't kill me," the man shook his head. "You froze up. Every time you froze inside, you let me do what I liked because you were trapped inside your own head. You weren't even aware you were still here."

"Oh, I was aware. I've been more men's fucktoy than just you. I hate this world for what it has made me, and it has made me into a tool of revenge. I hate my father for taking me the way you did, I hate each stranger on the streets of Tokyo, and I hate you. My father isn't here. Those strangers aren't here. I am a tool of revenge…" Nagi raised an eyebrow.

"No one will find us down here," the man said. "If you want a public humiliation you'll find this chamber sorely lacking for viewers."

Nagi shrugged. His naked body uncoiled and stalked around the room, exuding an air of sensuality that no child should. A male Lolita, in many ways, Nagi strode through the cold air to pick up the twisted metal collar.

"Rape is hard to get over. It scars a person for life. But you learn to live with the scars, after a while. I'm a child, but I have an adult's mind. I grew up many, many years ago, and I have an adult's thirst for justice."

"Revenge isn't justice."

"So?"

Nagi stood directly in front of the man. Shadows spread across the room. Water filled it, fire filled it, tar filled it, blood filled it. Everything was an illusion except the last. Nagi drew the blood from the man's veins with delicate ease, soaking it through the pores to turn the offender scarlet. 

As the blood trained away the man lost control of his talent. At first illusions swept through the institute in alarming colours and shapes, twisted creatures and monstrous forms writhed through walls and distorted through ceilings. Schuldig was the first to compare it to an acid trip, but he wasn't the last. As the man grew weaker the illusions grew fainter.

Nagi frowned at the limp body. He didn't look anything like Hertz. Well, there was a resemblance, but it was like Hertz was a son, or even grandson, who took after this man. Nagi dismissed the illusionist's claims as a lie, though he couldn't think of a reason for such a strange falsehood.

* * *

When the body was finally found it was unrecognisable. Nagi had done him that favour. It was spread across most of the room, skinned and eyeless. His private parts were nowhere to be found.

Only two men knew of Nagi's guilt. Another assumed and a few guessed, but neither Crawford nor Schuldig had any intention of revealing the boy's secret. Nagi's confidence had rocketed and his will to live had been strengthened immensely. Schuldig mentioned the death to Jei one day, and that night Nagi woke to see a redhead sitting cross legged at the end of his bed, poking him with a knife to wake him.

"If you touch me you'll die. Painfully," Nagi warned.

Jei laughed. He drew the knife through his forearm. "There is no pain," he smiled. "My name is Jei, and I want you to help me hurt the God that puts us all through this torture."

"I don't believe in God," Nagi sighed. He'd heard about this nutjob.

"We are victims. We ought to take revenge on those that make us so."

Nagi couldn't argue with that.

Finally! I was really coming to hate that Nagi arc, but I couldn't think of a suitable perpetrator. That wasn't quite the way I would have liked to end it, but I needed to have set up more earlier to close that arc as I'd have liked. I may revise some earlier chapters at some point to round it off a little more neatly, but for now it's over. Coming up: Schu/Farf action, since someone did ask, Brad and Nagi meet properly, Rammi gets dealt with and a bunch of other stuff I haven't decided yet. ::eye roll:: by this point in New Rule s New Ruler I knew how it would end in relatively good detail, here I'm still making it up as I go along, and I think it's starting to show. I know how it will end, but I don't know how I'm going to get to that point yet, and it's causing some nasty writer's block. 


	33. The Wrong Side of Dawn

**The Wrong Side of the Dawn**

It was dawn. Brad stared at the streamers of light bouncing off the snow through weary eyes. All night? Had he really been reading that dossier all night? The grey sky shone as the Sun edged through the crevices between the mountains, it's light preceding it in a parade of glory. Brad grimaced. Seeing dawn because he was up early was a matter of professional pride; seeing dawn because he was up late just meant he'd been an idiot and forgotten to check the time again.

This was the third night in a row he'd failed to sleep. He'd been reading obsessively since he'd received the documents, interrupted only Schuldig's visit and his body's own demands, which were growing fewer and further between. Brad frowned; that in itself was a bad sign. When was the last time he'd eaten, gone to the bathroom, or even moved?

He stretched and wandered around the apartment in an attempt to coax sluggish blood back into dry veins. His appetite was dulled by failure to eat properly, so that despite his hunger the thought of eating made him feel physically sick. Still, Brad Crawford was nothing if not a practical man, and he forced himself to eat. Luke warm pasta, no seasoning, not even butter, was all he could stomach for now. It rekindled his appetite, but the only other thing he could find in the cupboards was stale bread and instant porridge.

"So bland you might as well be English," a sardonic voice drawled. Brad's head snapped up, tired eyes taking a moment to focus on the man in the corner. It took him several seconds to recognise his guest, despite their 'intimate' acquaintance.

"What the fuck happened to your hair?" Brad gaped.

Schuldig ran his fingers through the green-white locks. "Bored. Turns out bleach does funny things if you go swimming in a chlorinated pool."

"I could have told you that," Brad grumped. Schuldig chuckled. Brad took a moment to collect himself, trying to force his sleep-addled mind into some semblance of consciousness, shutting out his gift in an attempt to cling to the present.  Schuldig handed him a large mug of coffee and he drank it voraciously.

"Ja, ja," Schuldig said with a dismissive wave. "Personally, I like it this colour."

"What are you doing here?" Brad asked when he could think more clearly. Dammit, he really had to start sleeping again. "I thought you vowed to make my life a living hell."

"And yet you accepted coffee from me?" Schuldig asked with an arced eyebrow. 

Horror filled Brad's face, leeching the blood from his already papery-pale skin. The future rolled its red carpet out before his eyes, red with his own blood. Before he could do anything to help himself he collapsed, twitching, at Schuldig's feet.

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," Schuldig smirked at the paralysed American. "Of course, I'm far from effeminate, but still, you should have known better. Dear Brad, you of all people should have known better. I'm far from trustworthy at the best of times, a trait you instilled in me yourself."

No one commented as Schuldig strode through Rosenkreuz's corridors, Brad's limp body limp over his shoulder.

* * *

Schuldig sprawled across the floor at the foot of Jei's bed. Jei was carving complex Celtic patterns into his thighs with a plastic spoon.

"Ye put him where?" Jei asked, only partially interested. The intricate Celtic knot was hard to created with a curved edge, but he was doing his best. His fellow countrymen would have been proud of the result.

"Those dungeons. You know, the one beneath the institute from when this place was a functioning castle. Where that Japanese kid killed the old guy."

"I'm surprised he hasn't been called up on that yet."

"They don't know it was him. 'sides, from Hertz's reaction, I don't think the old bastard was well liked."

"I got a glimpse of the body," Jei said conversationally. "Looked like Hertz. Maybe a relation?"

"Maybe," Schuldig agreed, disinterested. "How are you at reading?"

"Fair enough, for a bairn my age," Jei finally paid Schuldig a little more attention. "It's about this thing your Brad was reading, ain't it?"

"Ja. I can read enough to get by, but it'd take me years to get through that lot. I'd drug Brad and take it from his head, but he's not going to fall for that again. He'll probably only eat food he's grown and prepared himself from now on."

Jei rolled his tawny eyes. "Are needles so hard to get hold of?" he asked the universe in general. "Ye don't have to ask permission!"

Schuldig smirked. "Okay, fine, you have point. I'll see what I can find to open his mind a little. I'll have to wipe it of this particular encounter afterwards, or we won't survive the night. Hertz is already looking for him. Not particularly hard, but he has acknowledged that Brad's gone AWOL."

"They won't notice he's got no idea where's he's been for the past few days?" Jei asked sceptically. "You think he won't suspect something?"

"I'll fill the gap. He's got to have something in there he'd liked to have done. As for Hertz and co? You think they'll actually give a damn?"

"True."

Schuldig leant over, dipping his finger in the blood seeping from the shallow cuts on Jei's thigh. "No higher, remember," he cautioned. "We agreed, no cutting off anything 'important'."

"I may be mad, but I'm still male," Jei pointed out. "My knadgers are staying where they are."

"Gűte, gűte," Schuldig leered. He smeared the blood on his finger across Jei's face like war paint, swirls and patterns like the woad patterns of the native Britons. When Jei was suitably attired, naked but for the bloody designs, some cut into the flesh, some 'painted' on, Schuldig leaned over the younger boy. "You're the Celts," he purred, "and I'm the invading Germanic tribes: Angles, Saxons and Jutes. I'm penetrating your homelands and thrusting into your country. You open up before me, fighting, but slowly, slowly, surrendering, inch by painful inch, giving up your bounty."

"The invaders never reached Ireland. Only the English gave up, and they were already of mixed blood: the Romans had already got to them."

"Just play along, will you?"

* * *

"He's where?" Hertz snarled. "Really, woman, do you expect me to do everything for you? If you know where that arschloch is, go and get him!"

"Oh calm down, monsieur Hertz," Madame Dubois sighed theatrically. "This is what you want, non? Keep the garçon out of our way, but unharmed."

"Schuldig is extremely unstable, and as for that Irish boy…" Hertz shook his head. "There's no guarantee they'll let Crawford live."

"So we find ourselves someone else to prepare for the summoning. All of the omens suggest he would be far from advantageous to us, should he live to fulfil that particular destiny." Madame Dubois leant against the desk, crossing her ankles demurely. Hertz almost laughed at the irony, and the smirk that flickered across his worn features did not escape the seer. "At least you don't have to worry about your position. He aims much higher than that," she said nastily.

"Your post is not exactly what he seeks either," Hertz sneered. "He's much more accurate and consistent than you, is that what you fear? He will make a good field operative, but he thinks he can do better than that. He dreams of challenging those above all others."

"So perhaps this interlude will do him good," Madame Dubois said disparagingly. "To be overcome by an old lover? There is nothing more humbling."

"You of all people ought to know that," Hertz leered.

"Well, I suppose it's something you do have little-to-no knowledge of," Madame Dubois gave him a smarmy pout. 

This verbal sparring had been the main ingredient of their relationship for over two decades now, a relationship that had never been anything other than professional. As long as both could wound with words they didn't need any other weapons, and along with Greg May, this was what had kept them at the top of Rosenkreuz's hierarchy, but also kept them from going any higher.

"Not all of us can consider ourselves the main contributor to Rosenkreuz's psi-parent stock," Hertz sneered. "You've been providing us with brats to experiment on for years now. Tell me, how much longer can you keep that up?"

"A gentleman never asks a woman's age," Madame Dubois scolded. 

"I merely keep you from looking yours," Hertz grumbled. 

That was part of their arrangement. Only the Ancient ones had found something resembling true immortality, but with Hertz's healing power he could stave off the frailties of old age, and in return Madame Dubois made certain death did not creep up on them in any manmade form. They didn't like each other, they didn't even trust each other, but they knew each other. Better the devil you know… 

And that was what made them both so nervous about the young woman watching the discussion, and the young man they had been discussing. These… these 'children', these young psychics could change everything with their ambition and their power. As long as Herr Hertz, Mr May and Madame Dubois had each other they could keep their posts, the triangle of power making a firm foundation for their authority. However, should any one of them waver, should they disagree on an important issue, should they let each other down, the ambitious children would pry open the cracks and undo everything they had so painstakingly built. As age crept up on all of them these cracks were as obvious as the lines on their faces, and Hertz felt like a wounded gazelle, watching the carrion eaters circle.

"We will give him a week," Hertz decreed abruptly. "If the boys have not returned him to us by then we will take action. Schuldig's affection for the Irish boy can be used, as we have little use for a non-psi, no matter how interesting. The 'scientists' can find themselves a new frog to dissect." He raised an eyebrow at Madame Dubois, who saw the racial-slur for what it was, but made no comment. Hertz would never hand her over to the Laboratories.

"How much do we want the telepath and psychopath to know?" the room's other occupant finally spoke up. "The Ancients have gone to painstaking measures to keep the details of the summoning from the inhabitants of Rosenkreuz, and I would not have their work undone."

"It is hard to keep anything from Schuldig," Hertz told her. "You will learn that for yourself soon enough."

"Oh," Silvia smiled cruelly, "I'm counting on it."


	34. The Right Side of Sunset

**The Right Side of Sunset**

Nagi was skipping lessons when the Irishman found him. Nagi got away with this on a surprisingly regular basis, especially General Studies. While his own education had been extremely lacking, as long as he had his laptop the teachers had found he was capable of educating himself. Besides, no one had bothered to learn Japanese, so they couldn't exactly quiz him on how he was doing. Nagi kept his new found grasp of both English and German relatively secret, revelling in the privacy he got.

Jei sat down next to Nagi, who was reading Dante's Divine Comedy with translating dictionary open on his laptop beside him.

"Ye won't make much sense of it that way," Jei smiled. "It's hard enough when English is your first language."

Nagi nodded absently. This wasn't the first time he'd run into the Irishman, though he didn't publicise their acquaintance. He was just as dangerous as Rammi, and twice as unpredictable.

"It's all about Hell," Jei added. "I know a lot about Hell. It's all in the Bible."

"I'm not Christian," Nagi said. "I don't think I believe in anything."

"You'll go to hell," Jei said unconcernedly. "Everyone here will. When I get there I'm going to stand on Lucifer's right hand side and help him in the war against God."

Nagi frowned. "But, if god created everything, why would he create someone to oppose him? It doesn't make sense."

"God's a bastard."

"Well, when you look at it that way…" Nagi shot Jei an amused look.

"He created us to hurt. I am a victim of His whims," Jei insisted. "I was but a child when my family were slaughtered. Those of us who love Him best are hurt the worst."

"So you hate him in the hope he won't hurt you?" Nagi hazarded a guess.

"I hate Him because I was willing to give him everything until He took everything from me. He claims He rewards the faithful. I am one of His victims, and I will show Him that pain makes us strong."

"If that were true I'd be one of the strongest people in existence," Nagi said pointedly, pulling up his sleeve to show his stick thin arm. There was hardly a shred of muscle on it.

"Strong emotion makes your power more volatile, aye?" Jei looked at him.

Nagi frowned. "Oh. Oh, I see. When… yes, that's true. Indeed. That which does not kill us makes us strong."

"One of his jokes," Jei told him. "We're just toys for Him to laugh at, stumbling around this planet. He manipulates us to see how we will react. He created us and hurts us and He claims our pain pains Him."

Nagi's mouth twitched. "Oh… dear," he grinned. "You make it sound as though God is like Schuldig."

Jei's eye's widened. "That is a frightening thought," he declared. "Schuldig in charge of the world."

They both smiled at each other. Nagi couldn't help but like Jei. He was strange and, well, insane, but as long as you weren't one of God's favoured he was amiable enough. He was a zealot of sorts, and Nagi knew that made him unpredictable, but that just made it all the more interesting to be around him. 

Nagi hoisted the book up in his lap. It was a large book, and he was a small boy. He felt overwhelmed by the tight rows of text sometimes, hiding his legs almost entirely from view.

"What does that mean?" he pointed at a word. "I can't find it in the dictionary."

"It's a name," Jei explained. "One of the demons. I'm surprised you didn't realise that."

"It's not even my native alphabet," Nagi pointed out, ego a little bruised. "Even the sentence structure is different."

Jei leant over the Japanese boy and read the paragraph over his shoulder. "Don't suppose you can say the name, can ye?" he grinned.

"Falfalello," Nagi tried, "Farfarerro… Falfalerro." He tossed the book aside in a fit of petulance. "I care!" he said. "I'm not stupid! It's just so different. I can't do this and it's not fair!" Jei laughed at him. Nagi looked even more hurt. "It's not my fault," he said again. "It's just so hard and I'm tired and I know I sound like an idiot getting it wrong over and over again but I can't do it without help and no one cares and everyone thinks I'm stupid and I'm not, I'm really not."

"You're just a child," Jei smiled. "I kept trying to quite when I read this, and it's my language. And I was older than you are now."

"I like the book," Nagi sighed. "It says so much about humanity. I just can't read it and I don't deal with frustration well, I guess."

"No, you don't," Jei grinned. "Perhaps you should have started with something a bit easier?"

"Read it to me?" Nagi asked suddenly. "Please?"

Jei picked up the book and started to read aloud. 

"O me! see that one, how he grinds his teeth;

Still farther would I speak, but am afraid

Lest he to scratch my itch be making ready."

And the grand Provost, turned to Farfarello,

Who rolled his eyes about as if to strike,

Said: "Stand aside there, thou malicious bird."

* * *

Brad opened his eyes carefully, annoyed to find his eyelids were sticking together. His throat was parched, his back was sore and he had a pounding headache. It all added up to hangover, but somehow that just didn't ring true.

Two pale faces met his eyes, one with hair the colour of blood, the other a chlorine green like tarnished copper in the sunshine. One had amber eyes, the other blue. One was wrapped in bandages, the other in a tatty green coat and a yellow duster holding his hair out of his eyes. Brad's heart lurched at that yellow rag.

"So, you're awake," Schuldig said softly. "You took your time about it."

"I'm not going to tell you anything," Brad said firmly. "And you can't get past my shields."

"You taught me to read," Schuldig pointed out triumphantly. "Oh the irony."

"You read like most five year olds," Brad aid scathingly. "You even run your finger beneath the words and sound them out aloud. I don't doubt that Jei is a little more literate, but it would take the two of you years to get through those documents."

Schuldig shook his head. "You see this?" he held up a needle.

"Oh, you didn't!" Brad gasped, before realising what Schuldig was implying. "Oh, you didn't. That's for me, isn't it?"

"I'm not an idiot, Crawford," Schuldig sighed. "The drugs are behind me, for the most part. My system is already pretty much permanently affected, and the guys in the Labs say they can't predict what would happen if I ever did any again. You however, are nice and clean."

"So you don't know what they'll do to me," Brad pointed out as reasonably as he could. "Some people react very badly to certain drugs, and once is enough to kill them. How do you know I'm not one of those people?"

"Can you foresee yourself dying any time soon?" Schuldig asked.

"No, but I can't see anything at the moment, which could well imply I'm going to die."

Schuldig rolled his eyes. "I guess it's just a risk we'll have to take. If you die, someone else will fill your place in the summoning. Or they would, except if they do we won't be there, so we're going to burn the manuscripts and bugger off before the can do anything about it."

"You can't run from Rosenkreuz," Brad warned. "You tried, remember? There are too many people with too many resources for you to escape. Nowhere is free from their grasp."

"Fiji," Jei said unexpectedly. "There aren't any operatives on Fiji."

"Right then," Schuldig said briskly, trying to ignore the fact that despite having nothing to base that claim on, Jei was probably right. He usually was, about these things. Schuldig figured it was something to do with the way he thought. He was a zealot, the Ancient ones were zealots.

Brad stared at him. "You can't," he murmured. "Schuldig… Schu?"

Schuldig plunged the needle into Brad's arm, carefully avoiding looking him in the eye. Brad's eyes rolled and his spine arched, and Schuldig found himself in the neat corridors and ordered shelves that were Brad's mind.

* * *

"If they kill him..." Hertz growled at Madame Dubois.

"They won't," Silvia interjected calmly. "Schuldig loves him."

There was a pause. "We haven't exactly seen much evidence of that," Dubois said cautiously.

"No, you wouldn't have," Silvia replied. Hertz scowled at her. "Schuldig is the one you should be frightened of, not Bradley. He hates authority, and he revels in doing the unexpected. Love takes many forms, and right know he wants to hurt Bradley as much as possible."

"So he might kill him," Hertz said coolly.

"Not that kind of hurt," Silvia smiled wickedly. 


	35. You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours

**You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours**

"Stop it," Brad said dully.

"What?" Jei frowned. Schuldig had left him on guard duty while he attended the still compulsory classes. Jei had been wondering whether it was worth talking Nagi into coming into he dungeons to keep him company. They could read Dante again.

"Stop watching me. You keep staring at me like some kind of vulture." Brad didn't know what Schuldig had drugged him with, but his arm was a throbbing mass of pain and his head felt like Nevada. No particular area of Nevada, just Nevada in general, full of heat and sand and flashes of gaudy neon in certain area.

"A vulture?"

"Yes, it's a carrion bird. You know, circling in the desert?" Brad bit out.

"A malicious bird?" Jei found his thoughts wandering back to Nagi and his book again. If he ran, he could probably find Nagi and get back again in ten minutes, if he really ran. But ten minutes was a long time, and Schuldig would be very angry if Brad escaped. They hadn't found out much yet, though Schuldig insisted that given time he would be able to learn more from the young American.

"Yes, I suppose you could say that." Brad despaired. He was sitting in a dungeon he hadn't previously known existed, in the bowels of an Austrian mountain, discussing ornithology with a psychopathic self-mutilating Irishman who hadn't blinked in over three hundred heartbeats, for lack of a better measure of time.

"Schuldig doesn't know what they're summoning. What are they summoning?" Jei asked blankly.

Brad frowned. Had Schuldig really learnt so little in the hours he'd spent inside Brad's head, violating his every thought? The idea terrified him. He could be here for months. For the first time, a treacherous little worm inside of him started to whisper 'tell them everything'.

"Is it Hell on earth?" Jei continued. "Is it the devil? Is it Atlantis? Is it an army of the dead? Is it-"

"I'm not going to tell you, no matter how many questions you ask," Brad bit out.

"Is it a demon?" Jei asked.

Brad refused to reply. He was so thirsty and tired and his whole body ached. He wanted to get up and walk around, just for five minutes. He was chained to a chair that was in turn chained to the wall of the damp stone room. A single torch burned in a bracket on one of the walls, not enough to warm or even properly light the room.  Mildew covered the walls and crept across the floors, mildew and lichen and various fungi. Sitting in the middle of it all was Jei, eyes gleaming red in the flickering light. He saw crossed legged, alternately licking and sharpening his knives. Surely the men from the Labs must be looking for him? Or perhaps, Brad thought darkly, they were glad to have him gone.

Farfarello peered at one of his knives. "Do you have a mirror?" he asked suddenly.

"No," Brad said shortly, not in the mood for this kind of inane banter. He realised with a jolt that he actually missed Schuldig. He'd rather have the German messing around in his head and commenting obnoxiously on everything he found than have the Irishman sitting on the other side of the room watching him peacefully. Jei was too unpredictable. He could very easily decide he was bored and kill Brad. Perhaps a little politeness wouldn't go amiss? "I'm sorry," Brad added.

Jei shrugged. "Not your fault. Ye didn't know ye were going to be kidnapped and I might be wanting a mirror."

"I should have," Brad sighed.

Jei shrugged and started trying to file his teeth to a point with one of his smaller knives. He cut his lips to shred in the process, and Brad took a bitter pleasure in the knowledge that Schuldig wouldn't want to kiss his new boyfriend now.

* * *

Nagi stared at him. "I said no," he insisted.

"Come on," Schuldig wheedled. "We just want to scan some stuff in and, I don't know, run a search on it. Can you do that? I bet you can. You're so clever-"

"Let me stop you there," Nagi snapped, not so much angry with Schuldig for using false flattery as with himself because it was working. "That won't work with me."

"But it is," Schuldig pointed out. Nagi glowered at him. "Come on, it's important."

"The same important that's kept you from classes for so many days? The teachers are furious," Nagi grinned maliciously.

"I know," Schuldig frowned. "I'm paying for it."

"So why did you disappear? I know Hertz. I'm surprised you're still walking," Nagi added.

"Have I mentioned your German is much better?" Schuldig said. "Jei said you're getting pretty fluent in English to, enough to read some bloody great religious book."

"I didn't realise Jei spoke to you about me," Nagi said in a small voice.

"What? Oh, yeah, I suggested he go and talk to you," Schuldig said airily.

"Oh."

"Huh? 'Oh' what? Spit it out, kid. Why have you suddenly gone off him?" Schuldig demanded. "Jei's a nice guy. It's something to do this me, isn't it? You're not…"

"No," Nagi said sulkily. "I don't have any feelings for him."

"Sure you do," Schuldig frowned. "Right now you hate him, for example."

"No, I hate you," Nagi said coldly. "I hate being used. That's all anyone ever does. I don't know what it is about me that screams 'use me', but there must be something."

"Your vulnerability," Schuldig said absently. "And, you know, your power. People want your power, and they think you're vulnerable, so they try and manipulate you."

"I'm not vulnerable," Nagi warned.

"Hell no. Not from what Jei said about that guy they found in the dungeons."

Nagi's eyes widened. "What do you know about that?" he demanded.

"Oh, don't worry. There's no proof it was you," Schuldig said breezily. "Rumour has it the guy was related to Hertz though. What do you think about that?"

Nagi just glowered.

"Oh come on, I'm not running errands for Hertz here," Schuldig sighed. "You're so paranoid! If you think I'm bugged, feel free to search me. Right now I've got nothing to better to do, what with you not lending me your scanner and all."

"You won't even tell me what for," Nagi pointed out. "You're just trying to use me and my resources. I'm not here for our convenience."

"Didn't you even listen to the opening speech?" Schuldig said vaguely. "I'm an older student. My convenience is precisely what you're here for. As I am for Brad, and he is for Hertz, and Hertz is for the Elders or Ancients or whatevers."

Nagi gave him a steady stare. "And who are they, precisely?"

"I'm not really sure," Schuldig admitted. "They're calling the shots, anyway. Look, if I bring you in on all this will you help us? It's an all or nothing deal, I'm afraid, if you're going to be this stubborn."

"You mean once you tell me what you want to use my scanner for you're going to use both it and me, whether I agree or not?" Nagi asked.

"Yes."

"No."

"Huh?"

"Don't tell me. Don't use my scanner or me. I don't want to get involved."

Schuldig stared at him. "But…" 

"I've had a hard enough time here as it is. I do not want to get involved in any kind of power struggle. My priority is surviving Rosenkreuz. The only reason you're still alive is because you're a telepath. There are plenty of telekinetic here, Schuldig. I'm expendable. One foot out of line and I'm dead." Nagi sighed. "You have no idea how easy you're getting it," he added wistfully.

"If anyone knows how easy, or hard I'm getting it, it's me," Schuldig pointed out with quiet fierceness. "I know precisely how bad it is for every single person here, so don't you even think of telling me what this place is like for you and all the other 'expendable' students. No one has a harder time here than me, because I have everyone's time here. Did you know there is not a minute when a student isn't being raped, or beaten, or killed? The screaming never stops. Ever."

Nagi looked at him coolly. "I know. I'm one of those screaming."

* * *

Silvia brushed her fingers across the boy's forehead. "You poor thing," she murmured. "Spurned by the closest thing you had to a friend."

"Don't try that with me," Rammi glowered at her. "Anyone would have done the same. I underestimated his independence, that's all. I assumed he need me just a little longer, but he was just fine on his own."

Silvia gave him an odd look. "That boy will never be fine on his own," she said. "He knows it. He hates himself for it."

"So… what? I try and make it up with him? He won't trust me again," Rammi said cynically. 

"He feels used," Silvia said. "By you, by Schuldig, by Rosenkreuz. He's happiest when he's independent, but he can't obtain that independence on his own. He has no idea how powerful he is, or how important he will be. He's scared. He's barely eleven."

Rammi looked uncomfortable. "I hate that Rosenkreuz does that to people," he admitted. "They took him away from his family and friends and left him here surrounded by sadists."

"I'm not sure," Silvia shook her head. "Perhaps he would be more willing to open up to a lover?"

Hertz spoke up from a corner of the room. "Or, perhaps, we could use a more conventional record," he suggested with smug superiority. "Oh look, his file, here on my desk. Let's see, he was found on the streets of Tokyo. How interesting. And what else? Ah, preliminary examinations suggested he was a run away. Oh, and they experimented with new brainwashing techniques on him. Well, I never." He shot Silvia a pointed look.

"I could have told you that and more in one conversation with him," Silvia said stiffly. "No doubt the reason he ran away is instrumental to understanding his personality."

"No doubt," Hertz echoed. "But we're not looking to understand him. We're looking to keep him away from Schuldig."

"He may well keep himself away from Schuldig," Silvia said firmly. "He's been through enough in his time here. He is smart enough to know that doing anything Schuldig asks of him will only lead to trouble."

"Let us hope so," Hertz said darkly. "There are already too many wild cards in the mix for my liking. How much of this is riding on suppositions, predictions and assumptions? Schuldig has never been predictable, the Irish boy is insane, the Japanese boy is too young and too new here for us to understand his motivations and even Crawford his surprised us in the past. With our powers we should have perfect control over this situation, and we don't. We can't even predict how long it will last."

Silvia sighed. "This is a pivotal time. Everything rests on what Schuldig is looking for."

"Which we don't know," Hertz snarled.

"Which he doesn't know either," Silvia told him.

"And what will we do when he finds this elusive bit of information, eh? We can't afford to lose a telepath, but if we can't control him…"

Rammi looked from one psychic to the other. There was so much more to this than concern for the summoning. He could feel the power pulsing in the air. He used his talent to try and get a better idea of what was going on, but the raw emotions told him very little. Hertz was on the defensive, he gathered, and Silvia… Silvia was pleased. She wasn't aggressive, she was just coolly happy that things were playing out as they were. She had been working her way up through the field agent ranks, and this commission was going to be a huge boost to her career. Her method of promotion was a bit suspect, though it wouldn't work on Hertz, Rammi guessed. He frowned. Silvia reminded him of his mother, in that respect.


	36. Chained Melody

**Chained Melody**

Schuldig stared at Brad. "Look, we've done this the easy way, and the hard way, and the fucking painful way. I'm running out of ways here, and you're running out of time. We haven't even given you a drink in two days. Why the fuck are you still holding out on us?"

"You won't kill me," Brad rasped.

"I might let you die," Schuldig said coldly.

"You're like some cartoon villain," Brad shook his head, his tongue feeling like a lead weight in his mouth. "You threaten and threaten, but you can't carry out the threats because then you'll never get what you want."

"You screwed this up for yourself," Schuldig pointed out. "If you'd let me in we'd could be allies by now. Hell, we could even be lovers. God knows where you're hiding this shit about the summoning in your head, but I've learnt a hell of a lot of other stuff about you. I've learnt how you couldn't sleep for lust when we were in London. I've learnt how jealous you've been getting while Jei and I are together. I've learnt that in the past, in the distant past, you had a vision of us. Us."

"No," Brad murmured, not sure why he was denying one of his most vivid memories.

"Several times, Brad. Disjointed, confused, some of it far future, some of it already happened, some dreams, some visions, but all us. So I don't think I'm going to let you die, and I don't think you're going to kill me. Somehow, this is all going to work out."

Brad stared at him. "Sometimes I wonder how a person can go through what you've been through and still believe that. It won't work out. It never does."

Schuldig shrugged nonchalantly. "I'll make it work out, for me, at least. You know I can do that, at least. My life will work out in a way that best suits me. The rest of you can go fuck yourselves, for all I care."

"Even me?" Jei asked.

"Yeah, probably," Schuldig shrugged again.

"You're a selfish git," Brad spat. "Your life revolves around yourself. You've never cared for anyone else, have you?"

In three short steps Schuldig strode across the dungeon and slapped Brad across the face. Blood arced from his mouth and trickled down his chin. He stood over the American, quivering with rage.

"You have never cared for anyone else," Schuldig said, voice low and angry. "I did. I loved you. I loved you with every particle in my body. And you used that and took advantage of it and never once thought about it. It never even occurred to you to wonder how that affect me. You took me for granted. You. Utter. Bastard." Schuldig turned and walked back across the room. He grabbed Jei's chin and jerked it around, almost breaking his neck, and kissed him roughly. Jei gave a squeak of surprise, and tried to pull away. Schuldig pushed him away roughly and his head snapped back to Brad. "Don't tell me I never cared for anyone other than myself, Crawford," he snarled. "Not when you were the one who taught me that it was the only way to survive in this world."

* * *

 "Schuldig, I-" Nagi stared around the stone room. "Where is Schuldig-sama?" he asked in halting English. He knew the man who sat opposite him. Most people did, no matter how low a profile he kept. But Nagi still remembered the American who had brought him to this accursed place.

"I don't know," Brad sighed. "He stormed out a while ago. The Irish bastard followed him, God knows why." He let his head fall back against the wall.

"Are you… you are Crawford san?" Nagi asked, stepping further into the room. "You have the items Schuldig wished for me to scan onto my computer?"

"Had, boy, had," Brad corrected dully. "I thought you refused? You are Nagi Naoe, aren't you?"

"Yes," Nagi murmured. He left the room, and Brad resigned himself to more abandonment, but a few minutes later Nagi reappeared with a glass of water. Brad was still chained to the wall, but Nagi held the glass for him and he drank greedily.

Nagi backed away while Brad was still drinking, and he almost choked until he remembered that the boy was a telekinetic. Nagi sat where Jei had been sitting earlier, and watched Brad with just as much intensity. Brad found it deeply unnerving. A child, small and delicate, huge eyes and tousled hair, knees drawn up under chin and arm wrapped tightly around them, elbows sticking out all over the place. The sort of child Brad had imagined himself fathering, intelligent and curious, intent. But Nagi… Nagi was cold and distant, impersonal and pragmatic in all things. He was a child, young enough to be considered cute, even, but the bitter intelligence that burned behind the blue eyes spoke of lifetimes of experience in a cold world. Schuldig was a product of the minds around him, but Nagi was a product of the actions.

He watched Brad with an intensity and determination, and patience, that no child possessed. Brad held his gaze.

"Is there a world record for not blinking?" A nasal voice interrupted them. Both heads snapped round to see Schuldig leaning in the doorway, unlit cigarette hanging limply from his mouth. "I've been here ten minutes, and by the looks of it this has been going on a hell of a lot longer than that."

Nagi scowled at him. "Is this what's going on? What I can find out about without being dragged into?" he demanded, gesturing at Brad. "Honestly, I though you knew you could trust me a little further than that. I have some brains."

"You have many," Schuldig said smoothly, "and I want to take advantage of them. Brad isn't the problem, you see. It's what we want to scan and filter. Of course, now you've come down here it'll be on camera, and Hertz will assume you're involved and know everything. So basically, you're screwed, even though you now hardly more than you did before."

"Oh give me some credit," Nagi frowned. "The cameras are all on a digital system. Installed by a complete idiot; if they were analogue I'd have to replace the tapes but since it's digital all I have to do is hack in to the system and stick the relevant film on a loop."

Schuldig stared at him. "You utter genius," he said, a smirk curving slowly across his face. "Oh, you're going to be so useful to me." He dug in his pocket for a lighter.

"I'm going to be so used by you," Nagi said bitterly.

"You don't have to be," Brad said quickly. "He needs you, not the other way around."

Nagi gave him a cold look. "Rosenkreuz doesn't need me," he pointed out. "I need someone like Schuldig to keep me from becoming too expendable."

"Everyone's expendable," Brad told him. "Even Schuldig. If they think you're loyal, you'll survive. If you're disloyal, they'll kill you, no matter how vital you are to them."

"Like cutting out a cancerous lung," Nagi said with grim humour. "You need it, but you're willing to give it up to stop the cancer spreading, no matter how much harder it's going to make your life."

"Of course, you'd rather not get cancer in the first place," Schuldig said, taking a drag on the cigarette.

Nagi and Brad exchanged looks. They didn't laugh, but they didn't have to. Brad's mouth twitched.

"I want your patronage," Nagi said, "in return for my help. What do you want?"

"You help," Schuldig said simply.

* What's 'patronage'? * Brad heard in his mind. It made him jump; the last time Schuldig had done they had been… * We were having sex, * Schuldig finished for him. * Regrets? *

"No, no regrets," Brad lied. "And patronage derives from the Roman idea of clients and patrons. Patrons would be richer citizens, usually a member of the class above the clients. Clients would go to their patron each morning and do whatever small tasks their patron demanded, and in return they would receive food, money and, if they were an artist or writer, exposure."

"I asked for a definition, not a history," Schuldig said wryly. "It's a 'you scratch my back, I scratch yours' arrangement, huh?"

"Should I get into trouble, I want you to use your influence to keep me from serious harm," Nagi said coolly. "In return, I'll scan whatever it is you want scanned in, and offer the kind of help a telekinetic can provide."

"That seems fair enough," Schuldig conceded.

"I want the same agreement with Crawford-san," Nagi added. "He also enjoys considerable privilege."

"Neither of us is popular with Hertz," Crawford pointed out. "We have very little sway with him."

"He's old," Nagi said confidently.

"Um, hey!" Schuldig waved a hand in front of Nagi's face incredulously. "He's in chains! Why on earth would you want his patronage? What can he do for you?"

"You won't keep him there forever. You can't. I don't know what's going on, but he's suddenly become a lot more important. So when he is freed, and you've got what you want, he'll be just as useful." Nagi smiled and stood up. "I plan, Schuldig-sama."

"So do I," the older man objected. "This is a plan, isn't it?"

"More of a plot," Crawford put in.

"Oh shut up," Schuldig snapped. "When you're chained up on the floor you don't get to have an opinion."

"Good rule," Nagi said approvingly. "Right up until the point you're chained up on the floor."

There was a rustle and a clank and a handful of clangs.

Brad couldn't resist. He turned his head and stuck out his tongue at the man now sitting next to him. Schuldig glowered at him, but Brad knew he was amused too. A little of that old camaraderie was still there, probably reignited by Schuldig's uninvited interruption in Brad's mind. Well, he'd been doing that for days now, but Schuldig hadn't been intrusive when he spoke to Brad, no more than normal.

"I just wanted to let you know," Nagi said solemnly, "I have power too, and you shouldn't underestimate me." And he walked away.

"Uh, Nagi?" Schuldig called.

"Nagi?" Brad joined in.

"Nagi!"

"Naoe!"

"Oi!"

Jei stepped through the door.  "Hello," he grinned.

"Jei!" Schuldig grinned. "Nagi chained me up. Little help?"

"He left his laptop," Jei smiled. "That's good. He must trust you a lot. He's probably missing it though. If he's helping us now, it would be good to keep him happy."

"Yes, he trusts us now," Schuldig nodded. "He left it here; he's probably going to come back and reclaim it. Soon."

"He knows we won't be going anywhere for a while," Brad snapped as Jei picked up the laptop and wandered off to return it. "And look, now he's got no reason to come back at all!"

"Ah, scheisse."

* * *

Nagi stood in the centre of the corridor, feeling flattered, a smug little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Being wanted by two men stoked his vanity, and he found it especially pleasing that neither wanted him sexually. He was wanted for himself, a wholly new experience.

Rammi grabbed his elbow and yanked him into a third year dorm room, closing and locking the door behind them. Nagi had caught a glimpse of Jei, gold eyes gleaming, rushing towards the door, clutching his laptop. Nagi prayed that Jei had the sense to keep the laptop away from the door if he chose to ram it.

Rammi pressed an ear to the door. "I think he's gone," he murmured. "I can't believe they let that psycho wander around like that."

"He's not so bad," Nagi objected. "At least he doesn't try to use people, or take advantage of them to further his own means."

"Or steal their powers?" Rammi raised an eyebrow. "I asked, Nagi. I wasn't going to steal. I worked at earning your trust, at being your friend, and you let your paranoia get the better of you."

Nagi stared at his feet. "You were kind to me," he admitted. "And you said, from the beginning, that you wanted my help, wanted my power."

"My intentions were mercenary," Rammi admitted, "but I like you. There are a lot of telekinetics, a lot of powerful telekinetics, but I chose you because I liked you. You were lost, and alone, and no one spoke your language and no one understood your culture. I know precisely how that feels. I resented being brought here so much. I was older than you, I spoke English, if not German, and I even had family here. And yet I still felt so alienated."

"We're all alienated," a voice said from outside the door. "That's why we're here. We're different. We're freaks. And we all know it. We treat each other as freaks, find factions and excuses to excuse our prejudice against ourselves. So much self-loathing."

"And you're the freakiest one here," Rammi growled. "What do you want, you nutcase?"

"Nagi left his laptop behind. I'm returning it. I'm his friend, I have his trust."

Rammi turned to stare at Nagi. "You're not… You can't be friends with that 'thing'. How?"

"And you wonder why I don't like you," Nagi said sardonically. "Look, we have a lot in common. I can't deny that. This place is hard, it is painful. I've suffered here, I suffered before I came here. But I can't trust you. I can't trust your intentions. Do you know why? Because you can't trust my intentions. If I befriended a younger student, which I know is impossible right now, it wouldn't be out of good nature. It would be to gain an advantage. I'd be nice, and I'd help them, and I'd look out for them, even try and keep them out of trouble. But I'd always put me first, and if push came to shove I'd let him go and I'd let him die. And you'd do the same to me."

Rammi stared at him. "You were born for this place," he said, a hint of admiration in his tone.

"I'm too young," Nagi sighed. "I can't protect myself, not yet."

 Jei laughed. "Schuldig's still all chained up."

Nagi stared at the door. "Good point."

"You can't earn a living, you can't rent a flat or own a credit card or anything like that," Jei conceded. "In the real world you'd be helpless, but here, you can look after yourself."

"As I said, you were born for this place. Crawford thinks he's a natural, but he's not a patch on you," Rammi added.

"I have to get back to the dorms before curfew," Nagi said abruptly. "I want to stay out of trouble. Let me out, Rammi." Rammi obediently unlocked the door. "Can I have my laptop back?" Nagi asked Jei, who handed it over without a word.

The teens watched the eleven-year-old boy walk away down the corridor.

"So small," Rammi murmured. "The perfect vessel for so much power. You'd never guess."

"You're going to die," Jei said simply, and walked away.

That night, Nagi thought about Rammi's words, and his own words, and cried himself to sleep.


	37. Blood is Thicker than Water

**Blood is thicker than water…**

Schuldig stared around his new room. Third Year. One year to go. One Year before the damned essay and the stupid little war game and the psychic scanning. Actually, he'd have to ask Hertz about that. Schuldig had a suspicion that rather than call Greg up from the Sahara, Schuldig himself might be called in to name and blame his fellow students. He didn't really care. Within an hour of meeting his roommates they were gone, one dead and the other two preferring to volunteer to watch the lower years' dormitories.

A room to himself. He hadn't had that since his first weeks in the Laboratories, during his first brief stay here. Even thinking about it in that detached context made him shudder and he had to sit on one of the bottom bunks in a hurry. Memories kept hitting him and he groaned, clutching his head. After spending so much time in Crawford's memory it was hard to get out of the receptive mindset, and he was defenceless against himself.

This was what was going to kill him one day. This was who. No matter how many enemies he made, he would always be in the greatest danger when simply left to himself.

* * *

Soft hands ran themselves through his hair. It took Schuldig a moment to register they weren't his own hands, which were still pressing into his temples. He didn't open his eyes, letting this new person stroke and caress and pet him. The second mind in the room helped him find the present in his maelstrom of a mind. It was a feminine mind, coy and sly, foreign too, full of martial arts and fighting drills, pain and anger boiling below the surface. It was a mind Schuldig could relate to, and a mind that attracted him.

Large Chinese eyes met his just-opened eyes and almost made him gasp. Mascara and some kind of sparkly eye shadow made them seem even larger, but it was the mere presence of the makeup that made Schuldig realise the power this girl wielded. No student wore make up. In fact, most of the 'teachers' in the institute didn't, with Madame Dubois being the obvious exception. This was someone from outside.

"Guten Tag," the girl smiled.

"…Guh," Schuldig managed. He blinked, blushed, swallowed, and tried again. "Guten Tag," he murmured. She laughed, but not unkindly. Perhaps she was used to having this kind of affect on men? He didn't like that idea.

"My name is Silvia Lin," she introduced herself, pulling back a little. "I was passing, and you seemed to be in some distress. I do hope everything is alright now."

Schuldig found his eyes drawn to her cleavage. It was at his eyelevel, after all, and rather prominently on display. A little contempt trickled through him. He had been a prostitute, and these clothes, this make up, stank of slut. She was trying too hard. He wondered if she really had just been passing, or whether she had come to seduce him. Without checking, he dismissed the second option out of hand. What purpose could she have in seducing him?

She stared at him for a moment. "What?" she asked, voice a little harsher.

"Could you be any more obvious?" Schuldig shook his head. "Tits out, short skirt, bitch heels and make-up in a place where no one but the Slut Seer wears it. I mean, you're a damn pretty girl, but this is too much. You don't need this shit to be pretty."

She stared at him through lowered lashes. "I… no one's ever said that to me before," she murmured demurely. Schuldig's natural scepticism took this lightening fast mood swing with a pinch of salt. "I mean, not that I was just pretty. People have always tried to convince me that I needed to try just a bit harder."

"And who are you trying for?" Schuldig said, leaning back on his elbows and looking her up and down.

She gave him an odd look. "Why should I be trying for anyone in particular?" she demanded.

"Fuck off," Schuldig said tiredly. "You're fake, you're faux, you're fraudulent…"

Silvia smiled then, and for the first time Schuldig felt her respond honestly to him. "They told me you were sharp, but it never occurred to me to believe them."

"Oh?" Schuldig raised an eyebrow.

"Just another teenager. I've dealt with your type before. All sex, drugs and rock and roll. One boiling mass of hormones."

"I'm a telepath," Schuldig said, a little defensively.

"So?" she scoffed. "I'll bet you watch the girls in the shower block through their own eyes. Maybe even play with their minds to make 'em play with each other." Schuldig laughed and nodded. Silvia looked a little taken aback at his honesty, but laughed too. 

"Look, lady," Schuldig pushed her away and stood up. "I'm flattered you dropped in and all, and don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for your help, but we both have places we want to be."

"I don't," Silvia said earnestly.

Schuldig paused then, and looked at her hard. "It is all for my benefit, isn't it?" he frowned. "Why? Who sent you?"

"What, I couldn't have dropped in of my own accord?" she asked sharply.

"Not dressed like that," Schuldig said. "And you knew who I was. I haven't seen you around before, which implies you left before I even arrived. Only those with an ulterior motive, and a damn strong one, come back. No one wants to be here if they've got the opportunity to be somewhere else."

"So I have an ulterior motive," Silvia shrugged. "Doesn't everyone? Power, naturally. We're all trying to climb that ladder, aren't we? Like your little precog, in fact. And I've heard all about that."

"So someone's been telling you things. About me." Schuldig looked her up and down. "I'm not an idiot, you know." He smiled then, mouth curving in a cruel grin. "It's Hertz, isn't it? It's all about Crawford and that prophecy. Now, I know Hertz, and I know he'd rather let Crawford die. But at the same time, if he wants to keep his cushy position, he can't afford to let that happen. One question remains. Why a telekinetic?" He slid closer, pressing their bodies together.

"Why not?" she murmured. She slid one hand through his wild hair. "I volunteered, sweetheart. You wouldn't believe what I've heard about you."

"That's… 'nice'," he grinned. "But wouldn't a 'mental' be more appropriate?"

"Haven't you ever asked what a 'physical' could do for you?" she purred, slipping one arm around his waist and pressing their bodies together, cupped his buttocks with her other hand and stroked his already growing arousal with…

Schuldig laughed, but it was fractured and broken up by gasps and moans. His eyes were hooded, blue slits glowing with pleasure. "The last telekinetic I was got distracted too easily," he breathed. "Not as much… fun as I… heard it… could… be."

But it was Schuldig who was too distracted now. He completely missed the contempt in Silvia's voice when she said, "Oh, I'm sure you won't be too distracting."

* * *

"You were amazing," Schuldig said candidly.

"I know," Silvia said smugly.

"No one else here can even touch that kind of skill level," Schuldig went on. "And I say that on pretty good authority."

"I heard you've been in a monogamous relationship with the insane kid," Silvia said.

"Jei? Hardly monogamous. I mean, that guy hardly feels anything. I might as well be masturbating, for all he gets out of it." Schuldig snorted. "Besides, he doesn't even know my real name. Hardly a relationship."

"What is your real name?" Silvia asked, genuinely curious. Schuldig, still soaked in afterglow, was flattered by the interest. So flattered that he told her. "Wow," she murmured. "So, Chr-"

"No," Schuldig cut her off, sitting up. "Don't call me that. Ever."

"Why not?" Silvia asked, pressing the sheet to her chest as she sat up as well. She could sense that her time with Schuldig was drawing to a close, and she started looking around surreptitiously for her wonderbra.

"Name's have power." Schuldig stared at her. "I shouldn't have told you. I never even told Brad."

"Brad?" Silvia looked at him. "Why should you have? He was just using you to gain a bit of experience to keep himself alive."

Schuldig stared at the rumpled sheets and sighed. "Yeah, I guess he was," he admitted.

"Poor thing," Silvia leant over and slipped her arm across his front, rubbing his chest. Schuldig grabbed her wrist.

"No."

Silvia gave a sigh of defeat. "Fine." She pulled away and crawled across the bed, giving Schuldig a view of her naked body that cheered him up again. He leered at her for a moment.

"Look," Schuldig stretched out, showing off his body to its maximum benefit, "I'm just worried about the people pulling your strings. They want to pull mine. I really don't like having my strings pulled."

Silvia gave him a level stare. "You're sweet, you really are," she said in a mockingly sweet tone, "but you're young. A hormone crazed teenager. So easily manipulated."

Schuldig's head snapped up to stare at her.

"I'd heard such good things about you," she went on. "From so many students and staff. I'd also heard that you and Jei were rather closer than you make out. I hope you're wrong, for my sake."

"I knew you came into this because you want to find out what's going on with Brad," Schuldig said guardedly. "And you haven't learnt a thing. You're not a clairvoyant, or postcog, or even a telempath."

"Who said I was going to question you?" Silvia smirked. "Now, Jei's a nutter, no questions there, but even nutters get jealous. You say it's not a monogamous relationship, but you told me your name. You're right, names do have power. You told me yours, but you haven't told him or anyone else. Who was the last person you told?"

Schuldig bit his lip. "Greg," he said. "Last person was Greg, and I didn't tell him. He read my mind."

"You know what makes me laugh? What makes this all so hilarious?" Silvia said, putting on her shoes. With an outfit like hers, it didn't exactly take long to get dressed. 

Schuldig stared at her. He was starting to feel almost vulnerable. Later he would learn that beautiful women like Silvia Lin had this effect on most men. "What?" he asked apprehensively.

"You're not even good in bed!" she laughed, and left.

Schuldig stared at the door, which was swinging back and forth, slowly oscillating to closed. His emotions were doing the same, swinging from furious to despondent, but slowly settling towards apathetic.

"No one else ever complained," he muttered petulantly to himself.


	38. But Sewage is Thicker than Blood

**… But Sewage is Thicker than Blood**

Nagi was watching Brad. Since being roped into Schuldig's scheme, he'd found himself part of a rota. Unable to actually visited the dungeons, as with Rosenkreuz's shrewd observation of students meant Nagi never really got a moment to himself, and certainly never had more than fifteen minutes to visit any one place. Schuldig had made his patronage felt, though, so as long as Nagi was visiting him the staff tended to turn a blind eye, as long as he wasn't late for lessons, meals, or bed. Well, Nagi assumed it was Schuldig's influence that allowed him to get away with what he did. It didn't occur to him that he had another patron, a powerful friend.

Since visiting the dungeons would have taken at least twenty minutes, running flat out there and back and only really accomplishing a brief check that Brad was still present, Nagi had hacked into the digital camera system and sat watching the older man through his laptop. It was late at night, and he was watching Brad sleep against the wall of the dungeon, lit only by a small stage light Schuldig had wired to a car battery. It had taken several nights or Brad to get tired enough to sleep with the harsh light on. Nagi stared at it enviously. He still wasn't comfortable sleeping in the cold darkness.

He'd started having nightmares. He was used to nightmares, normally. Nightmares about his father. Nightmares about his time on the streets. Nightmares about Rosenkreuz. Memories, dreamed. But these knew nightmares weren't memories, despite bearing a worrying relation to a certain aspect of his past.

Apparently illusionists were a subset of telepaths, like healers were a subset of telekinetics. In fact, there really were only three talents: telekinesis, telepathy and precognition. Pyrokinetics and healers were telekinetics. Illusionists, clairvoyants, telempaths and postcognitives were telepaths. Precognition was a category in itself. The best field teams had one of each, and a fourth member from whichever category deemed most appropriate.

Nagi assumed his nightmares came from some of his more recent revelations. He was a natural at the kind of subversive power games Rosenkreuz played. He was precisely the same kind of bastard as the illusionist he'd killed. And now he was dreaming about the man, coming to kill him. Nagi grimaced at the symbolism. By killing the illusionist, he had begun his own suicide, descending into a personal hell. Nagi would be wiped out by his own deeds, leaving, well, the kind of adult Rosenkreuz tended to produce.

Brad stirred, and Nagi's attention was drawn back to the screen. The American looked terrible, ill and starved. Nagi knew Schuldig wasn't much better off. A rumour had started going around about how the telekinetic from Hong Kong had found him almost insensible, and it and taken full sexual intercourse to reinstate any kind of sanity. Nagi suspected that Schuldig had probably been fine after a few minutes talking to the girl, and slept with her anyway.

Nagi wasn't the only one who had heard that rumour. Most people knew by now, passing it from bunk to bunk at night, barely making a sound. Even Brad had heard, down in his dungeon. Nagi had told him, and he'd laughed bitterly. Apparently he'd already been aware of what had happened, and he warned Nagi that what was to follow could change the future irrevocably.

Of course, Brad had admitted, that was true of every single event, from causing an earthquake to scratching one's nose.

Schuldig had heard the rumour. For once he hadn't started it, and when he passed Silvia in the corridor she had sneered at him. When he had spoken to Hertz about running the telepathic scan of the new students (something he wasn't going to do, apparently), as he left Hertz had made some small comment about Silvia, and echoed her smirk. And suddenly Schuldig really, really wished he hadn't slept with her.

One night, a night when Nagi was watching Brad, he found Jei sitting on his bunk. This in itself wasn't unusual; the Irish boy had come to prefer the thin mattresses of the third year rooms to the complete lack of mattresses in the labs. The rumour hadn't really got going until a fortnight after the actual event, but now Schuldig could hear it rustling in the back of every mind he passed. It was odd, because he'd slept around before, but that wasn't the rumour.

The rumour was his real name wasn't Schuldig. The rumour was he'd been so taken by the girl from Hong Kong, after just one fuck, that he'd told her his real name. The rumour was he'd never told Brad his real name, or anyone else he had fucked. The rumour was Schuldig was a lovesick idiot, because everyone knew Silvia was a bitch.

Jei was staring at his feet, hair covering his face. It was white, Schuldig noticed. Well, bleach wasn't so hard to get hold of, he reasoned. He'd done it himself. Still, Jei hadn't made a very good job of it; there were streaks of the original blood red showing through, especially in what passed for a fringe. But white. Purity. An odd choice for Jei. His mind was a mess, Schuldig could tell before he entered the room. It was a delirious whirl of pain and anger and something Schuldig couldn't put his finger on. Something that had always been there, but was more there than it had been before. Like a black hole, it was distorting everything, pulling it in, warping the planes of Jei's mind until it threatened to consume him.

Schuldig sat down next to him. He could feel in his lover's mind that the rumour had burned its way in there, too. No wonder he was upset. Betrayal could be pretty all-consuming.

"Why did you tell her?" Jei asked, voice unreadable.

"My name?" Schuldig guessed correctly. Jei gave no sign of even having heard him. "I don't know. I think I, well, I failed her, sort of. Sexually, I guess, though I thought it had been good."

"You don't tell someone that kind of thing just to make up for being bad in bed," Jei told him.

"No," Schuldig agreed. "I guess I just wanted to tell someone. Not telling people made it seem important, and it's not, not really."

"It was never a secret?" Jei asked.

"Never meant it to be," Schuldig pouted. "But then I never got around to mentioning it to Brad, and I love him, so after that I felt like I couldn't tell anyone, because he's so possessive and that would destroy any chance of getting back together with him."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Jei had accepted Schuldig's love for Brad. He had accepted Schuldig's penchant for sleeping around. Even Jei couldn't satisfy the ex-whore. Schuldig needed the sex, to stay sane, in Rosenkreuz more than he ever had outside.

Schuldig shrugged. "You weren't the kind of person to tell."

Jei didn't move, but Schuldig felt the emotional temperature in the room drop several degrees.

"I don't love you, Jei," Schuldig said bluntly. "You're a friend. With benefits. I enjoy your company. I enjoy our conversations. I enjoy the sex. But how could I tell you if I didn't tell Brad? He doesn't believe it's even worth stringing two sentences together to talk to you."

"When you're insane people act like you're stupid, or amnesiac, or deaf," Jei observed coolly.

"Yeah, and you're none of those things."

"You treat me like an idiot," Jei told him coldly. "You assume I won't hear about the rumour."

"No, actually. I knew you would. I've been waiting for this for some time now," Schuldig said calmly. "If you're angry that I slept with Silvia-"

"Idiot," Jei snarled. "I'm angry that you chose her to release your name to."

"Names aren't important," Schuldig snapped back. "I've had so many! I don't even know if Christian is the name I was given by my parents, not any more. All I really remember is that Adonis is the name Greg gave me, and Schuldig from Brad, and 'oi' from countless men in the streets."

"All your names were given to you," Jei said, a little surprised.

"Not all. Some I picked. I chose to keep Schuldig. I don't know, maybe I gave it to myself. I was delirious. Sometimes the most profound truths come through when you're in a delirium."

"It never occurred to me that names could be changed," Jei said quietly, voice emotionless again.

"I've been through several," Schuldig said, trying to keep his voice light. "Discarded so many I can't remember most of them."

"Why do you change your name?" Jei asked. He still wasn't looking at Schuldig, hair keeping his face shadowed. Schuldig reached out to turn his head, but Jei shied away. Schuldig let his hands fall back into his lap.

"Sometimes it's simply to stay ahead of the law," Schuldig admitted, "but mostly it's just a way of acknowledging other changes. It's about how I see myself. I give myself a name to suit myself. Or because I got bored."

"When people give other people names," Jei observed, "they often get it wrong. You are nothing like the name your parents gave you."

"What, a Christian?" Schuldig barked a bitter laugh. "We wouldn't be having this conversation if I was."

"I don't like your name," Jei said, voice still utterly bland.

"Neither did I. Didn't like my parents, either. 'Specially not when I learnt my mother's husband wasn't my genetic father. Even less when I told him so, because no one told me I was the only one who could read minds. And-"

"I don't like my name," Jei said.

"It's not bad, as names go," Schuldig offered.

"It's part of my life before, when I was but a sheep," Jei went on. "'The Lord is my shepherd' it says, and so I was his sheep."

"You're not a sheep," Schuldig laughed softly. "I've never met anyone less inclined to follow the crowd, unless it was myself."

"I need a name to reflect this. A name that was given to me by worshippers of the Lying God implies I am one of His." Jei let his head sink a little further into his chest. "I shall take a name that belongs to one of His enemies. A name created by man to describe the indescribable daemons that haunt his antagonist's domain."

Schuldig thought for a moment. "Azazeal?" he suggested. "Assuming Lucifer would be too presumptuous."

"No," Jei sighed. "That is not the demon I see myself as."

Schuldig thought for a moment. "Provost was the name of that man who visited Hell," he mused aloud. "Saw that in Nagi's book. If you want something a little more human, that could be a good one."

"Nagi's book?" Jei thought for a moment. "The book I read to him."

"Yeah, that's the one," Schuldig agreed.

"There were demons in that book," Jei mused. "We're going to summon a demon. It would not do to take his name."

"A demon?" Schuldig cocked one eyebrow. "That explains a bit."

"The demons in the book," Jei went on, apparently not listening to a word Schuldig said, "were named by human tongue. To give a creature of the divine a name, even a fallen creature of the divine, is a kind of blasphemy." 

"So pick a bloody name already, or do you want me to go and pester Nagi and find the book so we can read it together?" Schuldig said impatiently.

"I read some to him," Jei said. "Nagi couldn't pronounce the name of the demon. A demon called Farfarello, who was like a malicious bird."

"Well there you go, then, Farf," Schuldig smirked and leant back against the wall. "You've got a few birdlike qualities. A carrion crow, admittedly, but still."

"Farfarello," Jei murmured, rolling the name around on his tongue. "Farrrrfarrrellllo."

"Very good," Schuldig sighed in mock exasperation. "So, your parents and childhood are behind you now?"

"My… childhood?" Farfarello took a sharp breath. "I take a name to spite Him who made me a victim. Who… killed my… parents." He looked confused.

"Yeah, the deity who let your parents die," Schuldig said dismissively.

"Deity?" Farfarello sounded confused. "Did God do it?"

"That's what you claim. Or, you know, some guy broke in and God let him do it, even though you were all such good little sheep," Schuldig said, real irritation sneaking into his voice.

"Something bad happened," The newly named Farfarello said, voice twisting painfully, emotion finally winning through. It was frustration, and pain, and a hint of regret. His mind was whirling now. A maelstrom of thoughts. Farfarello's world was bending and distorting like hallucinations. "They… they did something bad. Sister Ruth, I don't know, something bad as well. And then God saw fit to strike them down." Farfarello's head snapped up. "Whatever they did, they didn't deserve that," he spat.

Schuldig had stopped listening. Running down his wall next to his head were a few dark red drips, flung from Farfarello's hair when he flipped his hair back. He felt one, luke warm and sticky, clinging to his cheek. The drips were running down Farfarello's face as well, like wet mascara. But it was a sluggish kind of ooze, and the liquid was brown and thick. It was old blood, but the wound still looked so fresh. It was as though it had been made when lying on his back, and allowed to mostly dry like that, a ring of blood like the aurora around an eclipsed sun. But he'd been sitting up for a while now, and Schuldig's mind went to the psycho from Clockwork Orange. That was who Farfarello looked like, from a distance.

But Schuldig wasn't at a distance; he was eye to socket with Farfarello.


	39. The Knives and the Nuns

**The Knives and the Nuns**

This chapter has a really high squick factor. It gets worse after the ***s (what's it called when you do that?), so if you're eating, um, stop. Oh god, did I actually write that? No wonder this thing is rated R! Lots of references to rotting flesh and stuff. Farf really getting into his new role as Demon incarnate. Oh, ick. If you want, skip the bit between the two sets of ***s.

Schuldig couldn't hold back the sigh of relief when Jei, no, Farfarello turned to look at him, because, simply, Farfarello could look at him. It was only one eye that was gone.

"I saw something," Farfarello said in a strangled voice. "I saw something and my mind says it cannot be true. So my eyes must have deceived me. I will not have rebellion in my own body."

"What did you see?" Schuldig asked in macabre fascination.

"I saw my parents deaths. I saw Sister Ruth in the doorway." Farfarello raised his head to stare at the ceiling. "I saw the bloody knife in my own hands. God put these images in my mind, Christian. God is trying to fool me. God is changing what my eyes saw."

"Jei…" Schuldig wasn't sure if he should tell the young man that this had nothing to do with God. Even now he could feel the Truth, a burning bush in the desert of Jei's insanity.

"I will take out my eyes, that the Lord gave me to see," Farfarello began to intone. "I shall cut off my ears, that the Lord gave me to hear. I shall bite off my tongue, that the Lord gave me to taste. I shall-"

Farfarello froze mid sentence. It was like a patient, kept awake during brain surgery, who is frozen in the middle of a word by the application of pressure on the correct area of the brain. Schuldig ripped through Jei's mind, searching for something to extinguish that burning bush. He could live with Jei's self-mutilation, but this was something else. This was cutting of his nose to spite his face, literally. And it wouldn't stop there, Schuldig could tell. This 'Truth' would destroy Jei, unravelling his world until he cut to his brain to stop the whispered lies.

Memories were a hard thing to alter. They were hard even to find, as Schuldig was learning with Brad, but Jei's burning bush could also be likened to a pillar of fire, ever visible. But having found it, Schuldig could see no way of getting rid of it. He might be able to repress it, but that would mean repressing every association too. Who knew what kitchen cutlery or hotel bible could set Farfarello off again?

But if those association could be cut off from the memory… Well, it would be much less likely to resurface at all. Not impossible, but short of directly referencing it, which tended to throw Farfarello straight back into his "I'm God's victim" style of repression, it wouldn't turn up of it's own accord. Schuldig started to separate those tenuous links, the knives and the nuns.

He felt them give, felt them break. The memory became isolated, floating in it's own bubble of pain. Schuldig resisted the temptation to look deeper into it. That would only wake the memory. Farfarello needed not to remember, at all, ever. Schuldig wouldn't sate his curiosity at the expense of his friend. Farfarello was drawing a line between his old life and his new. Jei was gone. Dead. He could be resurrected, if the memory was opened, but he probably wouldn't stick around. Farfarello was here now, a one eyed, white haired, god hating, self-mutilating demon. Personality-wise, Jei had been Farfarello for years now, ever since the death of his parents, but he hadn't seen the line before. Farfarello had assumed he was the same person as Jei, somehow, despite the radical alterations. And now Schuldig was correcting that.

In some ways it made the younger man so much saner. Things were settled. The confusion had been cleared up. Maybe he'd be able to feel pain again, even. He would, one day, if he acknowledged that he killed his family and dealt with it. Schuldig had done his best to prevent that happening, but in one brief, selfish, malicious moment he reached in and pulled a few more cords. Farfarello was a good lay, and a good sparring partner. It would take something special for his mind to associate pain with hurting.

Schuldig withdrew and looked at him. Farfarello's eye refocused, and his mouth closed with a snap. That one tawny orb contracted until only a point of black remained in the owl-like iris. Schuldig had always found Farfarello's absolute control over his body a little disturbing. He could control those automatic reflex responses that people weren't supposed to be able to, what with them being automatic and all.

Staring into that black pinprick, Schuldig felt delicious shivers run up and down his spine. The gaping socket wasn't so bad to look at, once you got used to it. In fact it… well, Schuldig admitted to himself it practically turned him on. Sometimes Farfarello's self-punishments did that. Schuldig was, in his own way, as much of a sadist as Hertz.

* * *

Silvia woke to find a demon straddling her. It had white hair and one yellow eye. Some kind of putrid slime dripped from the raw black socket where the other one used to be. The demons flesh was a mass of scar tissue and still seeping cuts. It smelt of rotting flesh and pus. The remains of the optical nerve in that socket were rotting away, and the rancid juices continued to drip on Silvia's face.

Silvia screamed. The demon laughed. It was naked, she realised, and those seeping cuts extended across its entire body. It was male, she noticed, and some part of her mind insisted demons were sexless. Except when they weren't, like succubi and incubi. Somehow, though, she doubted this was a sex demon. It would be starving to death if it were. Even its tongue was cut, she realised as she watched it lick its lips. Her stomach heaved.

"What are you?" she murmured, unable to help herself.

"You helped me," it said. "You pushed me."

And then realisation hit. "You're Jei," she mouthed.

He stuck a finger in his eye-socket and stuck it in her open mouth. She started to scream, but that only allowed him to push the fleshy matter further down her throat. Chocking and gagging she through all her power at him and flung him across the small room. He hit the wall and slumped to the ground, bones cracking and popping.

Silvia vomited over the side of the bed, retching until her throat burned and her eyes watered and her stomach hurt. As she gasped for air again, trying to quell the dry heaving, she became aware of another sound in the room. The demonic man was still slumped against the wall like a discarded rag doll, but he was laughing like a jack-in-the-box. With a vicious twist she turned his organs against one another, and while the laughing took on a more breathy quality it didn't stop.

"Little girl, little girl," Farfarello began to chant, single eye fixed on the Asian girl. "Little girl, little girl, over stepped your bounds. Little girl, little girl released the hellhounds." He barked and snapped at her then, teeth clicking together. In the moonlight Silvia saw they had been filed to inexpert points.

"Names have power," Farfarello went on. "We must cut Schuldig's name from your head. It is a bad name that tells you nothing of him. A bad name bad people gave to him. Cut it out, cut it out."

Silvia couldn't take her eyes off him. With a smiled he pressed two fingers to the inside of his elbow ad began to bend the arm, slowly, slipping through a cut that had begun to heal, fresh blood poured anew a the glint of metal became apparent. It was a needle, long and sharp and glimmering black with blood in the moonlight.

Farfarello tilted his head to one side as he pulled the needle out of his arm. Silvia broke the arm, flinging her power at it. He ignored it, ignored the bone that began to push its way out through the muscle and skin. Pulling the needle out entirely her took a moment to lick the blood from it, seeming to savour the taste. Silvia felt her stomach heave again. Madame Dubois had never warned her about this. How was she to know the psycho would seek revenge?

He climbed to his feet carefully, one leg broken and the opposite hip dislocated. Silvia managed to shatter his kneecaps as he approached, but he didn't stop. Despair began to creep over her as he gripped the needle between his teeth and started to drag himself across the floor with his last good limb. Silvia broke the bones in that too, but he kept coming, like a snake on his belly. A serpent, a demon, sent by the devil.

Silvia curled up against the wall as the creature squirmed its way through her vomit unperturbed. As a last ditch effort she managed to create a telekinetic shield around her, but she didn't know how long she would be able to keep it up. She wanted to scream, but all that came out was a panicked croak. She watched the needle, hypnotised, as Farfarello struggled against the shield. 

And then Silvia woke up, sweating and panting under what had been crisp white sheets. She had been having the nightmare for months now. She could even name the night it was, in the nightmare. The night before she was sent to replace Falbros's recently dead telekinetic. She had known her work to tear Schuldig and Jei apart had been good, but that was a reward beyond all expectations.

She always woke up at that point. It was funny, because she had woken up that night, having had precisely the same nightmare, but something felt wrong with the memory. Off-kilter. Like she'd woken up much earlier than she remembered, but couldn't fill in the gap. 

~~~

Schuldig and Hertz had ripped predator from prey, Schuldig effectively shutting down both their minds in one fell swoop. Hertz had taken one look at Farfarello and shuddered.

"Send him to the labs. Get him cleaned up, but don't let them bring him around. I'd rather he was sedated for the next century," Hertz had growled in their common language.

"Ja," Schuldig had sighed. He was the one who had told Hertz about what Farfarello was doing. The girl on the bed, frozen in terror, had touched him deeper than he liked to admit. Maybe it was just because there weren't that many pretty girls at Rosenkreuz. Maybe it was because, well, she really had been amazing in bed. One day he'd have to sleep with one of her ex-boyfriends, provided she wasn't some kind of black widow who killed and ate all the helpless men she seduced, just to find out who really was better.

"What turned the boy's screw?" Hertz had asked. "He didn't use to be this insane."

"Some old memories started making themselves known," Schuldig had said. "I cut them off, but it's still having residual effects. He thinks he's a demon at the moment. So does she," he had indicated Silvia.

"I can see why," Hertz had said with grim humour. "He looks ferocious."

A group of grunts had run in, all non-psis or psis so weak they weren't worth training. They had taken the catatonic Farfarello away and started to clean the room. Hertz and Schuldig had just stood there, unmoving, while the bustled had gone one around them. It had taken some time, and by the time they were alone with Silvia the sun had started to rise.

"Wake her up," Hertz had commanded. "Convince her all of this was a dream."

"How are we going to explain our presence?" Schuldig had asked curiously.

"We won't be here. I trust you can do this without line of sight?" Hertz had asked scathingly. Schuldig, unwilling to admit he had only done this with someone's memories once before, and that had been Farfarello, had nodded firmly and followed his superior out of the small room.

Silvia had come back to herself to realise she was crouched up against the wall, recovering from one of the worst nightmares she had ever had. The sequence of events was too firmly burned in her mind for Schuldig to fully remove. She lacked the advantage Farfarello's insanity gave him. There was a distinct possibility that she would never recover.

Hertz had wanted her sent to the labs when Schuldig warned him of this. He had wanted her disposed of. Instead, Schuldig had asked one small favour.

"Put her in a field team. She's powerful. More than powerful, she's skilled. You don't want to waste that kind of talent; the Elders wouldn't look kindly on it. Besides, this will only serve to make her crueller. I know how minds like hers work," Schuldig had smirked in the knowledge that Hertz had to take his word on that.

Hertz had given Schuldig a long hard look. "Fine," he had bitten out eventually. "But bare in mind that none of this would have happened if you had left Crawford alone."

Schuldig had perked up at that. "Yeah, that's true." Even going through mental hell each night trying to decipher the contents of the codex Crawford had read was made bearable at the thought that it had meant he had got to sleep with Silvia. Sex made everything good, in Schuldig's world. Pity he wouldn't be getting much more of that from Farfarello.


	40. Just a Dream

**Just a dream**

In the same way the last chapter deserved the R rating for physical gruesomeness, this chapter deserves it for the sexual aspects. I've kept it brief, but the rating is honestly deserved, I think.

Nagi frowned. "I killed you already," he whined.

"Yes," the man said. "I'm bored of that now."

"So… what?" Nagi was on the defensive. His powers were useless here. But the illusionist? Practically born for the dream world. He was the kind of telepath who thrived in this situation.

"So we're going to swap places," the illusionist smiled, lip curling dangerously. "You can stay right here."

"Leave the bairn alone," a voice came through the wall. Nagi frowned. Had there been a wall there earlier? He hadn't been paying much attention to the background. It was somewhere in Japan, he realised now.

"Who?" The illusionist spun round. Hertz, Nagi remembered vaguely. He'd claimed to be another member of the Hertz family.

Nagi took a sharp breath in. It was a monster. He hadn't known he could dream up such creatures. He shot a fearful look at Hertz Two, but the aged illusionist seemed even more horrified than he did, his form wavering as he lost control of his powers through surprise.

"Leave. The. Bairn. Alone."

"What are you?"

"I am-"

"You are Farfarello," Nagi whispered. He'd heard a few rumours about Jei's transformation, but he hadn't realised it would be this immense. He was unrecognisable. He was terrifying. He was demonic in name and nature. He was insane.

He was beautiful.

Nagi was young. A child. On the cusp of adolescence now, and finally feeling those oft mentioned 'feelings' that adults don't like to bring up around their offspring because it's a reminded of time passing. Nagi knew the facts of life. He couldn't even claim virginity. But for the first time he could claim sexual desire.

"Farfarello," he repeated.

"Get out of the boy's head before I throw you out," the Irish man said. Without a word, the illusionist faded.

Nagi stared up at Farfarello, blue eyes huge. "Thank you," he murmured, voice catching in his chest.

"He's not gone," Farfarello warned. "You are a possessed child. That demon will take you one night, and wreak havoc on the world."

"Will you protect me?" Nagi simpered. He loathed himself for it, but even self-contempt couldn't keep him from doing everything he could to ensure Farfarello's undivided attention and protection. This was new, this was sudden, and this was powerful. It was not something Nagi would take to half-heartedly.

Farfarello shot him a bemused look. "You've never needed protection from any man before," he pointed out.

"I can't protect myself here," Nagi said honestly. He sidled up to Farfarello. "I'm vulnerable," he added, biting his lip.

Farfarello seemed a bit disconcerted. "Go to Schuldig," he suggested abruptly.

Nagi sighed. He was going about this the wrong way, clearly. It didn't matter, it was only a dream. Farfarello was locked up in the Lab's darkest, dampest, dankest cell. Nagi found himself hoping he had this dream over and over again, so he could keep practising for when he really saw Farf again.

"Will you stay?" Nagi asked softly. "Just till I'm out of the dream cycle."

"Aye, bairn," Farfarello sighed. "You're lucky I found you. I'll keep you guarded, for tonight at least."

"Thank you," Nagi said candidly. "I hope I dream about you often. I've been having that nightmare for weeks now."

Farfarello looked alarmed. "Weeks? Has he threatened to take your body before?" he demanded.

Nagi thought about it for a moment. "No," he said finally. "Some nights he's barely even here. It's like he's been approaching me, from a long way away, and only now is he closest enough for me to see and hear him."

"He is trying to rise from the dead," Farfarello said ominously. "He must have escaped purgatory before he was assigned to hell, and it has taken him time to find you."

"Really?" Nagi asked, feigning interest.

"I will come when I can," Farfarello said eventually. "Dreams are hard to access, but I know you well. I was wandering past your bed when I heard you scream."

"You're out of the Labs?" Nagi asked incredulously.

"Hah, no," Farfarello snorted. "I have released my soul from my body, for the time being. I was walking Rosenkreuz, hoping Schuldig was awake that I might haunt him, when I thought of you."

"I'm glad you thought of me," Nagi said, heart leaping at the idea. "Have you always been able to project yourself?"

"No, or I haven't tried before. I think Schuldig untied me," Farfarello said cautiously. "He's been playing with my head. From the outside, I can see all the snips and cuts he made. It make the outside look positively unscarred!" he laughed bitterly. "The German is arrogant. He thinks he is God."

This lined up with Nagi's previous evaluations of the telepath, and he told Farfarello so. "I don't want to go to him," Nagi said. "I don't want him to mess with my mind. Whatever he did to you, he did for his benefit. I will be no one's tool."

"You are everyone's tool," Farfarello corrected lazily. "You're too powerful and too young."

"I won't be young forever," Nagi said sullenly. "And I'll only get more powerful."

"Have you held anything back?" Farfarello asked. "Everyone has a way of defying Rosenkreuz. Schuldig laughs in their face, but hides behind his uniqueness. Rammi uses his connections to get what he wants, and ignores rules he doesn't like."

"Yes, I hold a lot back," Nagi interrupted. He didn't want to be reminded of his former friend. "I can do things I have never heard of others doing. But it's not resistance. It's self-preservation. Resistance gets you killed, or worse. I don't have that uniqueness, or those connections, to hide behind when I overstep my boundaries."

Farfarello looked at him. "And this is why you are a tool and always will be," he said. "You could shield yourself with their fear, Nagi. No one would dare oppose you, if you let lose on those who tried. Crawford, Schuldig's Crawford, learnt that lesson."

"Do you know why I won't use fear as a weapon?" Nagi asked softly.

"It is a powerful weapon," Farfarello said, a little puzzled.

"Because I am a product of fear. The cornered rodent bites back." Nagi looked at him through cold and bitter eyes. "When a person is put through a great deal of fear, it builds up and fills every part of them, and keeps building. The pressure increases. Under pressure, one element may change to another, and so the fear turns to anger. And still there is this pressure, still building, still changing, until there is only anger and no fear, and it can't take the pressure, and it explodes." Nagi's voice was crystal sharp.

"Are you afraid?" Farfarello asked, voice a soft and woolly alternative to Nagi's cold point of a tone.

"Always," Nagi said. "Always afraid, always angry, and always pressured."

"Nagi go bang," Farfarello murmured to himself, tawny eye gleaming.

"Nagi go bang," the boy agreed.

* * *

The next morning Nagi woke to the usual cold clanging bell. There was the sound of rough sheets and blankets sliding over each other, and second years barking sleepy commands. Nagi ignored them, lying still. Above him hovered a single yellow eye. When Nagi reached up to touch it, it winked, then faded away.

Not a dream, then, not the normal kind.

* * *

Schuldig settled himself opposite Brad, the codex on his lap. Its weight was reassuring, a reminder that he wasn't tilting at windmills. The information was there, in Brad's head. All he had to do was find it. Brad looked tired and dirty and sullen, an expression Schuldig was more used to seeing in the mirror than on his mentor.

It was the filth, Schuldig decided. Brad hated being dirty. He was going to be as uncooperative as possible.

"Do you want a shower?" Schuldig asked casually. He stroked the sheaves of paper languidly. Brad glowered at him. "The sooner you cooperate the sooner you can go back to your nice little suite and take a shower. Get clean."

Brad refused to reply, but Schuldig could feel the longing.

"I've tried starving you. I've tried denying you water. It hadn't occurred to me that denying you cleanliness was a way through, but with your anal-retentive obsessive-compulsive character, well, I should have guessed, shouldn't I?" Schuldig smirked at him.

"You're in this alone now," Brad spat. "They've taken Jei away, though I doubt he'd have anything to do with you anyway."

"You'd be surprised," Schuldig said smoothly. "It's Farfarello now. Jei is dead."

"Does it make a difference?"

Schuldig pushed the wedge of paper off of his lap and slunk over to Brad, kneeling in front of him. He brushed one hand against Brad's head, slipping fingers between greasy locks of hair to caress Brad's skull.

"Yes," he whispered, leaning forwards and kissing the American hard. Brad responded just as passionately. Schuldig pulled back, pausing to run his tongue over Brad's hungry lips, and studied the older man. "What would you do for a shower?" he purred.

Brad wasn't about to pledge anything to Schuldig, not to simply peel the layers of grime from his skin, but it was close. "Sex," he managed, head whirling. He wouldn't tell Schuldig about the prophecy, but Schuldig wasn't interested in that right now. It lay in the middle of the room, forgotten, abandoned by Schuldig's libido. "I'll have sex with you."

"Will you suck me off?" Schuldig asked, pressing his body closer to Brad's to elicit a moan.

"Yes," Brad whimpered. "Just let me get clean, and let me fuck you." Schuldig started to trail kisses down Brad's neck, but stopped when he remembered the layer of sweat and dust, and saw the dark lines of dirt in the creases of skin. Shower. Right. Shower then sex, definitely.

Schuldig pulled back and yanked Brad to his feet, snapping the chain that held him to the wall in one strong hand. Brad stumbled after him as Schuldig led him through a maze of dank tunnels, the underbelly of the mountain, until he found a small room. It stank of dungeon, of illegal containment. In one corner was a mouldering bed with shackles at each corner, and the door was covered in heavy bolts. Brad paused in the doorway, and Schuldig let him take it in.

"Can't get clean here," Brad shook his head. Weeks of mental war had left him confused and easily dumbfounded.

"Trust me," Schuldig smiled. Holding Brad's hand in his, he led him across the foul room to a small door on the other side.

It was a sparse cubicle, barely more than functional but it was clean. Brad gasped. The chipped white tiles and mildewed towels were heaven to his starved eyes, proving for him the cleanliness wasn't next to godliness, but simply was godliness. Breaking Schuldig's grasp on his hand he started stripping off immediately and spun the stained stainless steel of the shower controls, not caring that the water that hit him was ice cold. He'd had years of cold showers. The brisk freshness opened his eyes and closed his mind, leaving him with a sense of self that Schuldig had taken weeks to strip from him.

Schuldig leant against the wall and watched as Brad scratched and scraped at his own skin. He grimaced at the water flowing to the drain in the centre of the room, an unpleasant yellow-brown colour. He'd done everything he could to keep Brad uncomfortable, denying him leave even to go to the toilet, until the smell had started to bother him. Still, even with that privilege restored Brad still needed the shower.

The water warmed with a jolt and a judder, the pipes objecting with whistles and bangs. As steam began fill the room, obscuring the men from each other's sight, Schuldig began to strip off the uniform he was still obliged to wear. When he stepped up to Brad and wrapped strong arms around a much-diminished waist he expected Brad to stiffen, even pull away. Instead he was rewarded with a pliant and pleased American, pressing back against him and leaning his head on Schuldig's shoulder.

"I hate you," he said conversationally, "but I haven't able to get you out of my head recently."

Schuldig laughed easily. He pulled back, leaving Brad feeling oddly vulnerable until he clamped down on the undesired emotion, and produced from a cubby hole Brad had failed to notice a flannel and a bar of iron-like soap. Brad moaned as Schuldig, after a great deal of effort, produced lather and began to finish the job Brad had started. As the last of several weeks of grime sluiced down the drain Brad turned to face him.

"I want to fuck," he said bluntly.

"You forget," Schuldig scolded, flicking soap into Brad's eyes, "who has the power here."

"You have no more power than I," Brad scoffed. "Idiot."

Schuldig bit Brad's neck, catching a pressure point between his teeth lightly and drawing a startled gasp from the older man.

"Nagi is ready and waiting," Schuldig told him. "You've lost track of time, but it's late and I've got Nagi out of bed to police this little outing."

"The telekinetic?" Brad frowned. "I'll never understand your interest in him." He paused. "It's not…"

"Sexual? No. I swing most ways, but not in that direction. I know how it feels, you see." Schuldig ran his fingers through now clean hair, relishing the fact he didn't have to hold back the urge to retch when he did so.

Brad smiled. He slipped his arms around Schuldig's waist and pressed their erections together. "Spread your legs," he commanded.

"Again, you forget who's in charge. I believe you promised to blow me?" Schuldig raised an eyebrow. "You seemed to enjoy it last time."

Unbidden, or perhaps bidden purposely by Schuldig, Brad's mind skipped back to that night. As time went by he fought to keep from attaching any emotional significance to it. He found himself missing those days, when Schuldig was his friend and companion, not his bitter enemy. Or better, those days when Schuldig was his student. He'd been so keen to mould the young German and avoid the mistakes his father had made. Schuldig had been so keen to learn and gain that friendship and trust Brad had been so reluctant to offer him. Brad remembered the bath, and the visions. For the first time he prayed to a god he didn't believe in that every aspect of that vision came true.

He kissed Schuldig, softly, every regret bitter on his tongue. Schuldig responded as gently, melancholy intruding on his own thoughts as well. For a long moment they just held each other in the shower. 

"Tell me," Schuldig whispered. "Just tell me what's going on and it can all go back to how it was. I still love you."

Brad pressed his head to Schuldig's neck. It was the hardest thing he'd ever had to say.

"No."

Schuldig took a long shuddering sigh and pulled away. "Blow me," he said, eyes closed, one hand pressed to his face to hide threatening tears. "Just fucking blow me."

Brad sank to his knees in the shower, water still cascading over his shoulders, and took Schuldig's hips in his hands. Schuldig thrust and Brad bobbed his head and Schuldig shook and Brad gasped after a few short sucks Schuldig was collapsing to the floor, spent. He sat in the shower, staring between his knees at Brad with watering eyes.

"Do you still want to fuck?" he asked, voice rough. 

"Yeah," Brad said scratchily, voice just as broken.

"I hate you," Schuldig added bitterly, sliding forwards across the tiles to wrap his legs around Bra's waist and Brad sank to sit between his own ankles. Brad kept his hands on Schuldig's hips and manoeuvred the willing German into position. He frowned for a moment, wondering if the scummy soap would serve as lubricant, when Schuldig thrust himself down on Brad's erection and enveloped him completely. A thin trickle of blood snaked away.

Punishment. Masochism. Self-loathing. Schuldig wanted to be hurt physically as he had emotionally, and Brad obliged helplessly, hating himself for being so consumed by his baser instincts.

When it was over and the hot water was running out, Schuldig crawled away and shook himself like a dog. He pawed through his uniform, his back to Brad. Brad grimaced at the thought of wearing his filthy clothes again. Before he could force himself back into them a wave of cold air blasted through the room, steam billowing to reveal a narrow form, dark in the white clouds.

Nagi held the clothes out and both Brad and Schuldig accepted them gratefully from him. Schuldig looked him up and down.

"Kid?"

"Farfarello told me you'd want these," he said, voice empty.

"Farfarello?" Brad frowned.

"He watched the whole thing. He told me I was too young to see, though," Nagi couldn't resist a pout.

"Farf watched?" Schuldig froze in the middle of pulling his jumper over his head and trying to put a sock on at the same time. "Huh?"

"Soul body detachment," Nagi said, as if it explained everything.

Brad frowned. "Could he do that before?" he asked.

Nagi shrugged. Brad turned to Schuldig, who shrugged as well. Schuldig stared at him.

"Is it him? Is he going to have this demon summoned in to him?" he demanded, voice rising in excitement.

"Maybe," Brad said evasively. "Let's go back to that godawful room and the chains and the filth and the poor food."

"Yes," Schuldig smirked. "And I can try that not sleeping torture. I hear it worked well for the KGB."


	41. Breathing

**Breathing**

Nagi writhed and screamed. Rammi frowned at the television screen.

"Go to him," his mother suggested. "He'll appreciate it. He might even let you back in."

"I'd like that," Rammi said dazedly. "His power makes me twitch."

His mother laughed. "Go to him, then, and twitch."

So Nagi woke with Rammi's cool hand on his forehead, the Indian purring soft words in one of his native languages. Nagi had discovered that Rammi's parentage suggested several options for his first language, and his childhood in Rosenkreuz lent in German as well. Still, this was what Nagi took to be Hindi, a language he associated with grainy Bollywood films full of beautiful women singing their emotions and men in loose trousers doing acrobatics. Nagi couldn't even remember where he'd seen the films, just that he had.

"What are you doing here?" Nagi asked, forcing his relief down.

"I saw you on the screens," Rammi said smoothly. "You're not the only one with access to the security systems, you know."

"You're pulling strings of those a long way up the ladder," Nagi said suspiciously. "Who are you?"

"Someone who had the advantage of being born a long way up that ladder." Rammi nudged Nagi with his hip and stretched out along the bunk beside him. Nagi had gained the status of second year a few weeks ago, being an autumn candidate. He didn't know what year Rammi was in now, or during which quarter he had joined the system. That worried him.

Rammi stroked his hair and Nagi jerked away, baring his teeth. 

"Oh hush," Rammi laughed. "I just wanted to get a feel for what was going on. That was far from being a normal nightmare."

"How would you know?" Nagi growled grumpily.

"Nothing shook. Nothing levitated. Nothing exploded." Rammi grimaced. "Someone was blocking your powers."

"Yes," Nagi said in a small voice.

"I can help," Rammi said softly.

"You said that before," Nagi remembered. "You just wanted my power."

"This isn't about taking your power," Rammi said, perfectly honestly. "This is about keeping you alive. You're not alone in there, are you?"

Nagi stared around the room, full of empty top bunks and already some empty first year bunks. Light sparked of a few open pairs of eyes, but no one paid a lot of attention to one small telekinetic and someone most were already assuming was his lover. Nagi bit his lip and tried to think. It was hard, with Rammi's warm body pressing against his.

"Schuldig can help me, more than you can," Nagi said.

"Can he?" Rammi said calmly. "Would you trust the man who so destroyed his lover's mind? Farfarello has had his memory wrecked, his pain receptors muddled and he has been so broken his soul can now wander free of his body."

"But isn't that what I want?" Nagi asked slyly. "So have this soul cut from my body?"

"But what if he cuts the wrong one?" Rammi murmured smoothly, seducing fear into Nagi's heart.

Nagi fell silent. His breathing slowly became more ragged, short little pants and hitches of breath, and his eyelashes fluttered in the darkness. He was trembling. Rammi wrapped an arm around him and Nagi clung to him involuntarily. Nagi yawned wildly, his shortness of breath and shudders in many ways more a result of suppressing yawns than from fear. But then, he feared the yawns, because he was falling asleep as he sat.

"I can't sleep," Nagi managed. "He'll come. . . he's so close." Rammi couldn't let Nagi's unasked request go unanswered.

"I'll stay," the Indian boy promised. "I can hold him off. I'll protect you."

Nagi lay down, curled against Rammi's broad chest. Rammi wrapped one arm around Nagi's waist. Nagi nosed Rammi's sparse chest hair and breathed in the musky scent of exotic spices, though perhaps his imagination was just supplying the smell he expected. India was far away and hot and exotic and full of adventurers and tigers and elephants and maharajahs. Rammi even wore a turban.

Rammi saw Nagi as a child. This act of sleeping together was to Rammi nothing more than the innocent words suggested. Nagi could have been a baby brother. But Nagi, as he'd already noticed, was growing older quickly. Pressed against Rammi's chest he felt a pang of guilt at the sensations flooding his body, guilt because he'd been so convinced those feelings were solely for beautiful, exquisite Farfarello. It was a sign of how cynical he was for such a small child, but also an indicator of healthy sense of humour, that Nagi could see the silver lining this presented in his current situation. If the worst were to happen and the illusionist took over his body, the old man would have to go through puberty a second time.

Rammi nuzzled Nagi's fine hair. "Sleep," he whispered. "I'll keep you safe."

"I shouldn't trust you," Nagi said sleepily. "You're not trustworthy."

"This is bigger than both of us. This is life after death," Rammi said. "If you can not believe I'm doing this out of altruistic reasons, or because I don't want to lose someone I once thought of as a friend and pray I will be able to use that label again, then believe I am doing it for glory, for power, and for knowledge. I can take all without hurting you. In fact, I receive them better if you emerge well, healthy, and mentally intact, complete with your power."

Nagi breathed.

* * *

Schuldig sat in front of Brad, poking him occasionally. Something he hadn't counted on with this particular form of torture was the fact he had to stay awake as well. Brad smiled wearily as Schuldig bit back a yawn. They shared a look.

"Speak?" Schuldig pleaded.

"Why are you so desperate to know?" Brad replied. It was a common exchange.

"I'll kiss you again," Schuldig suggested. "I'll fuck you. I'll blow you."

"It's a sign of weakness, trying to bribe me to talk," Brad told him. "You'd be better off threatening me again."

"Doesn't work," Schuldig dismissed it. "I either send you mad or I persuade you to talk."

"Or you read the file, like I did." Brad said sardonically. "Took me long enough. That's why I can resist torture. After putting myself through that I'm not willing to give it up so easily."

"Read it?" Schuldig barked. "I don't even have the sodding thing any more. Hertz demanded it back." He shot Brad a cruel look. "Didn't say anything about letting up on you though."

"Wouldn't have expected him to," Brad sighed. "Why don't you torture him? I'm sure you'd get a kick out of that, and he's got to know just as much as I do."

Schuldig shook his head. "Never hurt a physical," he said softly. "You never saw what happened to some of the guys who hurt Nagi."

"I heard things," Brad said quietly.

"Everyone hears things. I met the guys afterwards. That eleven-year-old commands more respect than any other phys. And most of the time he's scared shitless. What does that say about this place?"

"It says the system always wins," Brad said dully. "Ever read 'nineteen-eighty-four'?"

"Brad, Crawford, Bradley, I can barely read full stop. Remember when we met? Remember the intensive teaching? Remember how we continue to work on that?" Schuldig snapped off the scathing rhetorical questions like a Gatling gun.

Brad reached out unthinkingly, as he used to whenever Schuldig started ranting against himself. He knew the German's self respect was low. He needed the occasional boost in self-confidence and self-assurance that Brad had come to realise only he could offer. No, others could offer it, but Schuldig would only accept it from Brad. Somewhere along the line some kind of father-son template had slotted itself around them, as well as siblings, as well as lovers, as well as bitter enemies.

Schuldig held Brad's hand, as blind to what he was doing as Brad was. He shuffled closer, sitting next to Brad and pressing against his prisoner. He kissed Brad's cheek and pressed his face into the crook of Brad's neck.

"I won't make the offer again," Schuldig said quietly. "You had your chance. You refused the chance to go back to what we had."

"What did we have?" Brad asked softly. "You want to know why I didn't take up your offer? It wasn't just pride. It's because all my memories of the period you recall so fondly involve fights and arguments."

Schuldig stared at him. "Well, if that's how you feel about it," he said bitterly. "I hadn't realised you were so miserable."

Brad yawned. Schuldig poked him viciously in the ribs.

"Bring me the book," Brad said. "'Nineteen-eighty-four'. I'll read it aloud to you."

"What's it about?" Schuldig asked suspiciously.

"All of the world's countries divide into three socialist states. It's about one man resisting the state he lives in, recognising its propensity for brainwashing and propaganda. His resistance in small, his acts slowly growing more active until he joins an organised resistance." Brad grimaced. "Do you want me to give away the end?"

"Judging from what you said earlier, it's not a happy end," Schuldig sighed. "Go on then."

"He gets caught and the system breaks him through a series of interesting torture methods. It turns out the organised resistance was, well, organised, but by the state."

"The state wins," Schuldig sighed. "You know, I feel I ought to get you to read it, just to learn from the torture methods, but I don't want to be discouraged." He turned and looked Brad in the eye. "See, when I bring down the state, I will succeed." Schuldig grinned. "I will bring down every state."

Brad felt butterflies in his stomach. Schuldig's determination made him hard. Power always did.

"Not alone," Brad breathed in Schuldig's ear. "You can't do it alone."

"Is that a challenge?" Schuldig switched on his most feral smile.

"It's a promise. You won't do it alone," Brad returned the wild, sinister look.

The electricity between them was palpable. Schuldig was bare inches away from him, leaning to match the contours of Brad's lean body, but careful not to touch him. He hovered over Brad, lips so close to Brad's cheek the American could feel the moisture of Schuldig's breath. The tiredness slipped away, but Schuldig came neither closer nor moved away.

Brad fought to keep himself under control. He wanted to move, to touch, to buck and thrust and writhe. He wanted to rip off Schuldig's clothes, with his teeth if necessary, and lie skin to skin, sweat to sweat. He kept his jaw firmly shut, his throat carefully closed. He daren't let whimper or moan escape.

Schuldig moved his head, circling Brad's face without touching it, letting his warm breath tickle Brad's left cheek, then his left eye, then forehead, then between the eyes, then nose, then right eye, the right cheek, and finally his lips. Brad's mouth opened against his will, sucking in each breath that Schuldig let out. He didn't know how long they sat like that, Schuldig propped up on one arm and half straddling Brad's crossed legs, sharing each breath. It was more intimate than any physical act, except perhaps sharing blood. It was life. They were sharing life.

Schuldig blinked, and Brad felt the eyelashes brush his own. It was a strange sensation, making Brad blink and turn away automatically. The spell was broken, and Schuldig sat back. Then Brad whimpered. 

"I love it when you're human," Schuldig said quietly. "I love it when your desires and hopes and fears and vulnerabilities remind me you have every flaw every other member of our species has." He stood up and walked a few steps across the room before spinning abruptly on his heel to face Brad again. "But I love it more when you're superhuman. Because we both are, and that binds us. Not in the sense everyone here is." Schuldig was catlike in his predatory stalking as he began to saunter his way back towards Brad. "We're extraordinary. Extraordinary. From the Latin, 'extra' meaning outside. Outside of the ordinary."

Schuldig stopped, standing over Brad, hands behind his back, head thrown back, hair backlit by the light seeping around the doorway.

"We are _extra_human, Bradley Crawford, and we're going to exercise our rights as such."


	42. Emotional Feathers

**Emotional Feathers**

Schuldig knew that this sleeping torture wasn't going to work. Sure, Nagi came down occasionally, what with having more free time as a second year, but the kid seemed to be struggling to keep himself awake. Probably a puberty thing, Schuldig figured. He'd thought about playing very loud music, but he knew that eventually Brad would fall asleep despite that. He'd tried squirting Brad with water, but he kept falling asleep himself and forgetting. So he was left with the poking.

"My finger hurts," Schuldig declared.

"Am I obliged to make a sarcastic quip?" Brad asked, head nodding.

"No," Schuldig sighed. "Perhaps I should invent a poking device."

"Or perhaps you should quit!" Brad almost whined. He hated himself for using that tone of voice, but he felt like a grumpy child. And he'd started having hallucinations, which wasn't fun. Unless they were visions, which meant any time now the wall was going to start twisting in and out and the floor would undulate a bit.

Schuldig petted his on the head and stood up, wandering around to stretch his legs. He'd managed a few short naps during Nagi's visits, but when he'd woken to see Nagi fall off his chair.

"Think of the devil," Schuldig muttered and yawned.

"I'm here for the night," Nagi declared, "so you can get some real sleep."

Schuldig squinted at him. "You're not tired," he said suspiciously. It was night? When had it become night?

"I got some sleep last night," Nagi smiled. "And for the last few nights." Schuldig frowned at him. "I'm not in the dormitories at the moment," he said by way of explanation.

"Why not?" Brad asked in a moment of lucid alertness.

Nagi paused, shooting apprehensive glances at Schuldig.

"It's Rammi, isn't it?" Schuldig growled. "You should stay away from that little prick."

"He's not," Nagi muttered defensively.

"Oh, so you've been checking, have you?" Schuldig said nastily. Nagi flushed scarlet and glared at him. Schuldig felt a pang and regretted his words. "He hasn't been making you, has he?" he asked more softly.

"What? No!" Nagi snapped.

"Just making sure," Schuldig said, reassured. Nagi's reaction had been no more or less than he'd have expected from the boy. Nagi calmed as well, and an odd look crossed his face. Schuldig realised he was pleased. Well, Schuldig conceded, it was always nice to know there was someone worrying about you. He glanced down at Brad and gave him a quick kick in the ribs to make sure he was still awake. Brad grunted and glowered up at him through one half open eye.

"I bet you've forgotten what your room looks like," Nagi grinned.

"Is that my cue to shoo?" Schuldig grinned back. "Make certain you keep him awake, kid. I won't stand for having my hard work scuppered while I'm sleeping."

"I'm on your side," Nagi said solemnly. Schuldig wandered over to him and ruffled his hair, for no reason other than he felt like it. Nagi pulled away out of adolescent pride, but he didn't move out of reach.

Brad watched them through his eyelashes. A strange jealousy touched his heart after Schuldig's earlier teasing. They hadn't touched since then. Schuldig seemed to find it entertaining. And now Schuldig was being his usual tactile self with Nagi, getting the reclusive child to respond to his touches. Brad wanted him. Even now, Brad still ached for him. His body was drawn to him like iron filings to a lodestone, irrevocably responding to his animal magnetism.

At some point Schuldig left. Brad wasn't certain if losing time was a symptom of sleeplessness, or whether he had in fact fallen asleep for a few too-brief minutes. He glanced across at Nagi and his heart began to speed up. God, he was so tired. And he was losing time. Why was he losing time? Was he going mad? Brad shook his head. Nah, he was probably just dozing off. But he didn't feel sleepy now. What if he couldn't sleep? What if Nagi let him sleep and he couldn't sleep? Didn't they say paranoia was a symptom of sleep loss? Oh god, what if he was getting paranoid? What if he got too paranoid to sleep? What if Nagi told him to sleep and he couldn't because of the paranoia?

Oh thank god, the hallucinations were coming back. Brad infinitely preferred them to the paranoia. The walls were moving again, and now geometric patterns were occurring of their own accord, completely unrelated to anything around him. It was almost entertaining.

Nagi squeezed his shoulder. "I owe this to Schuldig," he said apologetically. "I have a favour to ask him soon, and really, I want him to be as well rested as possible first. The sooner you break the better."

Brad blinked at him. "Eh?" he managed. 

"Seeing as you're not listening," Nagi smiled, "I might as well talk." He sat beside Brad, using his telekinesis to poke him as Schuldig had. He'd also managed to hook up a length of hosepipe to a tap somewhere, which he hung over the drain when not in use. "I looped the cameras again, but the only one down here is the one I rigged myself. I watch you on it, sometimes. I saw Schuldig toying with you yesterday." Nagi sighed. "It looked very sexy," he added mournfully.

He squirted Brad with the hose. Brad shook the water out of his eyes. "It wasn't fun," Brad managed. He changed position, parting his legs a little further.

Nagi's breath caught in his throat. Even though it had been over twenty-four hours ago, Brad still had the hard on Schuldig had coaxed out of him. Yet another symptom of sleep loss, at least in men. Sporadic arousal. Brad didn't notice the odd look that crossed the child's face. He was trying to recall any other symptoms of lack of sleep, and was beginning to wonder if perhaps memory loss was one of them. He didn't see as one hand moved out, then withdrew, then moved slowly out again. It hovered, trembling, then descended. Slim fingers plucked at material, numb and clumsy.

Brad found himself very awake very quickly. His whole body spasmed, trying to shake off the small hand. He tried to turn away, to roll away, to move away in any way, but Schuldig's chains kept him helplessly still. He snapped his head around and stared at a wild eyed and shaking boy. Nagi crawled backwards on his hands and feet, obviously terrified by this abrupt change of mood.

"You're eleven!" Brad yelled. "You're a fucking child!" Nagi whimpered and cowered. Brad opened his mouth to keep yelling, to shake off his disturbed thoughts by releasing them verbally. He stopped, mouth open and ready, as Nagi began to cry soundlessly. Nagi was remembering something, Brad could see, remembering someone and some time, in the past, that touched on the present. It touched Brad's past too.

Despite his mental exhaustion the American found he was thinking clearly, and clung to that sensation. "Nagi," he said quietly. "Naoe-kun."

Nagi stared at him. The hose snaked its way across the floor and into his hand. He held it in front of him, soaking himself and flooding the floor around him. He blinked through his tears at Brad, holding the hose like a broken toy and hiding his tears with the running water. No, not a broken toy, a broken weapon. He wore his pain like a shield. He wore his fear like a weapon.

"Why… why did you do that?" Brad managed. "No one asked you to do that. You didn't need to do that. You shouldn't have done that. Shouldn't have felt you had to do that." He was panting and the words were coming out too fast for the Japanese boy to really understand, but Brad couldn't help it. Nagi just stared at him, frightened by first the anger in his voice, then the panic.

"Nagi-kun," Brad switched to his broken Japanese, unused since the trip on which he'd found the boy. "Why? Why… touch," he managed. He was pleading now, and another change in emotion only served to scare Nagi further. Eventually, Brad calmed himself enough to struggle along in his 'normal' voice. His overtired state didn't help his emotional mood swings particularly either.

"Naoe Nagi," Brad said in what was practically a monotone, "Why did you touch me?"

"Thought… thought you wanted me to," Nagi mumbled. The pool of water he sat in had now spread across the floor to lap at Brad's feet.

"Why? What did I do to make you thought… think that?" Brad breathed deeply, desperate to keep his voice steady for Nagi's sake. His Japanese seemed to be improving because of it.

Nagi shrugged. "People do," he said in English, apparently calm enough to recognise Brad's lack of fluency in his native language. "You needed to be touched."

"You're…" Brad couldn't keep it up any longer and found himself crying with emotional exhaustion. "Young," he sobbed. 

"Yes," Nagi said blandly. He couldn't see what his age had to do with anything. He couldn't understand why the American was sitting there crying, like he had himself a few minutes ago. Had he scared Brad? "Crawford-san?" he murmured.

Brad couldn't talk. He shook his head pathetically and let his head drop onto his knees. Nagi watched him curiously. Brad's shoulders continued to shake for a while, and when they stopped Nagi knew the older man was asleep. Nagi didn't wake him. He didn't want to make the older man cry again. It was strange and frightening.

Familiar footsteps could be heard on the stairs and the water still gushing from the hose slowed to a trickle. Nagi was pleased to see Rammi despite himself. The older boy smiled at him and entered the room, picking his way through the water that had spread through the cracks in the flagstones to create small pools across the room. There was a chair in the room, left by Schuldig, and that was it. Rammi looked at it for a moment before deciding not to trust it. He studied the sleeping American, and then turned to the Japanese boy, still cuddling the limp hosepipe.

"You didn't come tonight," Rammi said quietly. "I was worried."

"I have other obligations. Now I've caught up on my sleep I have to fulfil them," Nagi said, incongruously calm. Rammi could see the raw redness of his eyes, and wondered what had happened. The sleeping American was still an emotional maelstrom, though, as usual, Nagi's emotions were tightly suppressed.

"You want Schuldig to help you," Rammi guessed correctly. "You sleep in my bed each night, Nagi, you trust me to keep you alive until morning. I don't understand you. What is the difference? Why do you go to Schuldig to end this threat? I could do it!"

"It's a difference between keeping my alive and not killing me," Nagi said dully. "Maybe I don't understand why, not really. But I know that I wouldn't trust Schuldig to keep me safe at night in the same way I am you."

"You don't trust me at all," Rammi said, "except out of necessity."

Nagi bit his lip. "I like you," he said quietly. "I don't trust you, but I like you. You have always been honest with me, in a way. Always made it clear you wanted my power, even if you weren't honest about how it would affect me."

"You'd be just as powerful as you were before," Rammi said earnestly, spotting a chink. "It wasn't true that you'd have my power, but do you need it? Would you want it?"

"You're not having my power and that's final," Nagi said firmly. He stared at the water he was sitting in as if it was new to him. He bit his lip. "Please come here," he murmured. The last few hours were catching up with him.

Rammi smiled benevolently and walked across the room. He actually picked Nagi up, holding the dripping boy against his chest. Nagi stiffened against him, but Rammi reached out with his gift and ruffled Nagi's emotional feathers. Nagi sighed and relaxed against him, letting the older boy tease his emotions into a mellow indifference.

Brad opened one eye and frowned at the telempath. Over Nagi's shoulder Rammi smirked at him. He hugged the child possessively, and carried him out of the dungeon. Nagi needed to be touched. He needed to be held and hugged and soothed and caressed and to have someone worry about him. Not many people did, and at Rosenkreuz it was almost suicide to extend your concerns to anyone other than yourself. Still, Rammi was worried for Nagi. Everyone knew he'd been through some trauma when he was younger, and Rammi could feel the repercussions of whatever event made him so adverse to contact. Nagi needed to be touched, but he didn't like it.

Brad raised his head and looked around. Wonderful. He was sitting ankle deep in water and the hose was still trickling. So now he was going to have a cold to deal with, at best. And Schuldig would not be happy that Nagi had abandoned his post, not one little bit. Nagi, who was uncomfortable being touched, but seemed to have no fear of touching. It was wrong, for a child to do that, to even consider doing that. Brad felt physically sick at the thought. It had been bad enough realising the boy he was attracted to on his first arrival was a mere thirteen at the time, despite later 'interaction'. Nagi was eleven, and looked young for his age. He might have been mentally much older, but still. . . . Brad didn't feel a thing for him, but if it had been a mere few hours later he probably wouldn't have even noticed it was Nagi, he was that tired and, well, needy. As Nagi needed touching by Rammi, a way of reassurance and a reminder that he wasn't alone in this big bad world, so Brad needed touching as well. It would have been something neither wanted to do, a sort of sexual harassment on both sides, but Brad felt a guilty yearning to have Nagi back. He didn't want Nagi to touch him there, but having the boy sitting next to him had made him feel a little better.

Brad blinked. Wait a second. Nagi, gone? 

He stretched his back, yawned, and settled himself as comfortably as possible against the wall.

_Nightnight._


	43. Waking Dreams

**Waking Dreams**

A/N: Done a bit of research (read: watched 'Shattered' on channel four, which is basically Big Brother but every time the contestants fall asleep £1000 is taken off the prize money) I've learnt a bit more about the side affects of sleep deprivation. These include hallucinations, increased libido, lethargy, introspectiveness, memory problems, paranoia, irritability loss of time perception, increased reaction time, and an inability to communicate. All of these symptoms can begin to occur with fifty hours since the last sleep. I didn't know it happened so fast either. Helps the continuity of this fic though!****

Nagi woke in Rammi's arms. Not for the first time, but there was never anything more to it than there would be a child joining their parents in bed after a nightmare. It was like having an older brother, Nagi had decided. Now Farfarello was trapped in the labs Rammi was shifting back to his old ways, turning up everywhere Nagi looked. 

He was twitching in his sleep now, and Nagi watched with mild interest.

You told me I could have his body

* I told you I could help. *

You're helping him.

* I'm earning his trust again. You're not the only one with an agenda here. Remember, you're here on my grace. *

You couldn't make me leave, boy.

* Don't underestimate my power. *

I know your mother. If you've inherited her strength I'm surprise you can read facial expressions, let alone emotions.

*You forget, I was born with no gift. I'm a leech. I have the power of whoever I take it from. And he was powerful. *

Was?

* Yes, 'was'. You don't think I'd share, do you? *

Do you kill? Is that your method?

* No. But it's fun. *

I can't disagree with that. Remember that.

* Is that a threat? *

Perhaps. If I can't have the boy, I'll take you. I'm older, wiser, and more powerful than you. I'm closer to telepath than you. 

"Rammi?" The Indian boy blinked grit from his eyes and tried to focus on a nose too close to his own to see clearly. "You were having a nightmare."

"Was not," Rammi growled defensively.

Nagi smiled. "You don't have to do that with me," he said softly. "After all, nightmares are why I'm here."

Rammi considered for a second. "I just didn't want you to think I was... weak," he lied. "I'm supposed to be protecting you from your nightmares, and here I am having my own."

The brief flicker on Nagi's face told Rammi that not only had Nagi believed the lie, but he'd even had to swallow back the doubt Rammi had been claiming he was trying to prevent causing. Strange kid, Rammi though, and ruffled his hair.

"I should get ready for classes," Nagi said with childish reluctance, clearly with no intention of doing as he suggested. He pouted.

Rammi chuckled and Nagi's petulance. "Yes, you should," Rammi told him. "You don't want to attract Hertz's attention."

Hertz!!

Rammi flinched suddenly, one hand going to his forehead, gasping slightly. Nagi jumped.

"What just..." Nagi stared at him through large frightened eyes.

"Headache," Rammi lied desperately. "You know, as I sat up. Probably a bit of a hangover, or maybe weather. Yeah, weather. I'm sensitive to the pressure like that."

Nagi sighed, sitting up and pulling away. "You looked like someone punched you between the eyes. I knew I couldn't trust you," he said quietly, "but I at least thought you would be straight with me."

"I am!" Rammi objected crossly. "What reason, I pray you, would you have preferred to hear?"

A look of introspection etched itself on Nagi's young face. Rammi hated to see the boy looking so old.

"A telepath," Nagi said eventually. "An angry one."

"No, it wasn't Schuldig," Rammi snapped tiredly. He was growing to hate his fellow student with a vehemence previously reserved only for Hertz and Greg May. "It was just a headache, okay? Now, you have to get ready for lessons. So do I, in fact." 

Rammi was disturbed at how close Nagi had come to guessing the truth there, or a semblance of. On the other hand, it was even more disturbing that it had happened at all. It shouldn't have, not while he was awake. Maybe he was starting to suffer from sleep deprivation? The irony almost made him laugh, but it wasn't that funny. He hadn't been getting as much sleep as he was used to recently. And even if it wasn't that, the idea that his control was slipping was truly disturbing. Suppose he were to lose control of his gift? Not the telempathy. Who knew what he'd pick up if he weren't concentrating? He didn't want to be a mere smoky pyrokinetic or weak healer. 

"Don't want to go to lessons," Nagi whined playfully. Rammi laughed, shaking away his anxieties. Both of them knew Nagi was putting it on for Rammi's sake, but Rammi couldn't help but be warmed by Nagi's childishness. It had more than a little to do with the fact that Nagi wasn't in any way childlike, so these moments of mischievousness helped make Rammi a little more comfortable with the normally solemn boy. Unfortunately, thinking of Nagi as a child, someone to protect, almost a younger brother, made keeping certain promises that bit harder for Rammi.

"You have to," Rammi told him, tickling his waist and making Nagi squirm. "Got to be a good little psychic."

"You don't go to lessons," Nagi blinked owlishly at his friend, the creases in the corners of his eyes betraying his amusement. Rammi realised with a swallow that Nagi found Rammi's behaviour immature and entertaining, and believed the charade. Partly, Rammi reminded himself, because it wasn't a charade. This was a real side to Rammi. No one had made him grow up in the way they had Nagi. His mother still spoilt him like she had the chocolate-eyed boy proud of his collection of fly wings.

"I have friends in high places," Rammi told Nagi. One day Nagi would get tired of the evasion, but he hadn't questioned it yet. "Plus, I'm third year. Not got a great deal to do." He tipped Nagi out of the bunk. Nagi fell towards the floor but stopped a few inches above, drifting the last handful of centimetres. Rammi watched him calmly. Not a lot of telekinetics could influence themselves.

Nagi sighed. "I hate this place," he told Rammi, all trace of child gone.

"We all do, Nagi," Rammi held his gaze. "It's just that for most of us the only alternatives are even worse."

"I hadn't thought of it that way," Nagi admitted. "I suppose it's the same for me. I couldn't... I'd never survive," he trailed off. "I hate that I belong here."

"Those of us that truly belong here don't feel that way," Rammi said softly. "That's how you can tell that Crawford was born for this place. You... you're suited to Rosenkreuz, but you don't belong here."

"That's almost comforting," Nagi said wryly.

"In the desert there is no sign that says 'thou shalt not eat stones'," Rammi murmured as Nagi departed to his lessons. Nagi didn't hear him, but someone else did.

Wish I had some bloody stones. I could pound some sense into you.

* Oh, shut up * Rammi snapped irritably.

* * *

Schuldig wanted to be angry, but he wasn't sure he could summon the enthusiasm. Crawford was still asleep against the wall, though he was up to his chest in water. It wasn't vulnerability that made Schuldig hesitate. It was the sheer fragility. Another hour or so and Brad would be dead. That was it. No more Brad. Oh, maybe his gift would wake up him with a vision of him impending doom, but he was still chained to the wall. No more Brad. Poof. Gone. Out with a whimper, not with a bang.

Schuldig turned off the hose and nudged the cover off of a drain in the middle of the floor. The water drained away quickly and as a chill began to settled Brad woke up. He shivered where he sat and watched as the last of the water trickled away. It scared him how close he had come to death, and how little he cared.

"Don't suppose you know when Nagi left?" Schuldig asked softly.

"You lose your sense of time, when you haven't had enough sleep," Brad yawned. He looked at Schuldig. "It wasn't his fault."

"Oh?"

"Something... happened." Brad flinched at the memory. Schuldig studied him and decided not to push the issue. "So, now what? What possible torture could you have left?"

"You remember how Hertz took the text away?" Schuldig asked gently.

Hope kindled in Brad's eyes. "Has he order you to..." he trailed off as an odd grin spread across Schuldig's face.

"Nagi just told me, between classes, that he finished scanning in the texts just before that," Schuldig told him. "You mean nothing to anyone here any more."

"That's not true," Brad contradicted him sharply. "You hate me, which means I mean something."

Schuldig laughed bitterly. "Do you know what happens to people I hate?" He let it sink in. "Goodnight, Bradley Crawford. Goodnight and goodbye."

And with that, he left.


	44. Goodnight and Goodbye

**Goodnight and Goodbye**

It was easy to lose hope. Sitting in the dark, chained to a cold stone wall. Yes, it was easy to give up. Easy to quit and wait for death.

Bradley Crawford was a man who prided himself on taking the road less travelled and avoiding the easy way out.

So why was he fighting tears?

Each hiccupping sob echoed in the lonely room, and Brad was crying because he knew Schuldig had meant what he said. Perhaps death wasn't something he was willing to face after all. Not with all those big ambitious plans stretching out before him. Not before he'd accomplished something. Anything.

Sometimes he slept. Sometimes he called for help. Sometimes he cried. Days passed, of that Brad was sure. Hunger and thirst were driving him insane. He tried to convince himself this was all just another new form of torture, but at no point in the future would Schuldig come for him. Both his inner and outer eyes had told him that as Schuldig closed the door for the last time. 

There was a click and Brad gasped with pain at the sudden burning on his eyes. The light couldn't have been that bright, but after what seemed like a wretched eternity in the dark he might as well have woken in the centre of the sun. He knew it wasn't Schuldig before he'd even managed to blink and squint his way back to vision. Schuldig wasn't coming back.

"Crawford san?" a soft voice said breathily, native accent oddly thick on the tongue, betraying anxiety.

"Naoe?" Crawford peered through lowered lashes at a fuzzy silhouette.

There was a loud crack and Brad jumped out of shock. It was the work of a moment to realise what had happened and he shook the shattered manacles from his wrists. The metal had scraped the hair off and he almost laughed at the smooth circles of skin. Looking up, fringe cutting out the worst of the light, he studied the boy in front of him.

Neat. Small. Self-contained. 

"I couldn't read all of it," Nagi said calmly. "My English isn't that good yet, and parts of it weren't in any language I recognise."

"Latin, Ancient Greek, Hebrew, Ancient Arabic..." Crawford listed tiredly. No wonder the damn thing had taken so long to read. His apartment had been littered with foreign language dictionaries.

"I got the gist of it, though," Nagi said solemnly. "Empire. Demon. Japan. Last attempt in Himalayas long before any of us were born."

Crawford sighed. "I wish they had done that," he groaned. "I had to read the whole bloody thing and you've just summed up everything I needed to know in three words."

Nagi cocked his head to one side. "But... It must go into more detail, yes?"

"No," Crawford sighed. "Feel free to tell Schuldig, next time you see him, that he knows everything I do already."

"So why did you hold out?"

Crawford shrugged and looked a little embarrassed. "I can't fold before Schuldig, can I?"

"You could have died before him though," Nagi said dryly. "Any particular reason you saw that as preferable?"

Crawford's heart stopped. Nagi hadn't freed him. Nagi didn't need the manacle to hold him, that was all. He was still just as much a prisoner. And Nagi had every reason to hate him. Crawford had brought him here, after all. If Schuldig, who had once loved him, could hate him enough to leave him to die, what would Nagi, who had never had any inhibition in his loathing, do?

"I'm Japanese," Nagi observed, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Does that suggest anything to you?"

"You're not the only Japanese person here," Brad said, kicking himself for each word that escaped his lips.

"I'm the only one who knows," Nagi pointed out, squatting down in front of Crawford, eyes gleaming. "More than that, other than you and Hertz, I'm the only one who knows the contents of that dossier."

"Blackmail?"

"Maybe. Schuldig would give his left arm to know, and not for any other reason than that you've held it back for him." Nagi shrugged. "As I said before, I do need a favour from him."

"And as I said before, feel free to tell him." Brad frowned. "And Schuldig wouldn't have gone to these lengths if he was simply being pedantic. He's concerned I'll keep any and all glory to myself. Ever since we met he's been determined to leach off of my ambition."

"Speaking of leaches," Nagi said quietly, "do you know who Rammi's friend in high places is? Only I know I'm getting help I don't deserve right now, and I'm concerned about what will happen when it's time to return the favour."

"Rammi? That Indian boy Schuldig was upset about?" God, it seemed years ago now. It was less than a year, Brad realised, but not by much. "No, I don't know anything in particular about him. I thought you were the hacker. Can't you find out from whatever records they keep here?"

"He's not in them," Nagi said bluntly.

"Have you checked the laboratory records?" Brad asked softly.

"No," Nagi said thoughtfully, a chill touching his spine.

Brad, watching his new captor closely, stood up carefully, stretching. Nagi remained squatting on the floor, apparently lost in thought. Brad studied his own emaciated body and ran a hand through shaggy hair. He looked down at Nagi again.

"Am I..."

"I'm doing you a favour," Nagi told him, standing up. There was something pathetically cute about the boy's bargaining when he was barely as tall as Crawford's elbow. "Can I count on you to be honourable?"

"Yes," Brad told him. 

Nagi started out of the room, but paused in the doorway. Brad wasn't quite up to walking yet, and he was edging along the wall.

"The other day," Nagi said quietly, "I'm sorry. Most people in your position would have expected that off me. I forget that you like to be different."

Nagi made certain the door was propped open and left Brad to try and process what he'd said. '...Like to be different.'

* * *

"Oi, Indian boy!" Schuldig called. He watched the shoulder's tense and heard 'what else should I have expected from a German?' ripple through a defensive mind. Schuldig gritted his teeth. "Hey, person I want to talk to but whose name I can't remember, and who's most identifying characteristic happens to be the fact he is the only member of his race in this corridor."

Rammi stopped and let Schuldig draw level. "That was uncalled for," Rammi said coldly. "You needn't flaunt your power, either."

"You needn't leap to conclusions, especially hypocritical ones," Schuldig snapped back. "German is a nationality, isn't it? If you don't want people to make snap judgements about you on the basis of your race then don't do it to others."

"Yeah, like you've ever experienced racial discrimination," Rammi rolled his eyes.

"I just did," Schuldig said acidly.

"What do you want?" Rammi sighed wearily.

"What do you want with Nagi?" Schuldig asked frankly. 

"We've had this conversation before, I recall."

"Yes."

"The reasons are different. Nagi came to me," Rammi said calmly. He didn't dare lie to Schuldig, in the same way Schuldig knew he couldn't lie to Rammi.

"And what reasons are those?" Schuldig asked nastily.

"Ask Nagi," Rammi said bluntly. "They're his problems."

"You're not a doctor. There's no confidentiality clause here," Schuldig pointed out.

"There's still trust," Rammi said.

"No, there isn't. Nagi doesn't trust you."

"He expects me to be truthful with him," Rammi said, remembering the morning's conversation.

"Did he ask you not to tell me?" Schuldig asked.

Rammi grimaced.

"No," Schuldig said flatly. "Have you been entirely truthful with him?"

Rammi knew he had to get out of the conversation now. "I've ever been entirely truthful with anyone," he evaded. "It's hardly a survival tactic."

"Not here, true," Schuldig conceded.

Schuldig froze. Rammi read what he could from the German's emotional state, but it was too mixed. Shock, definitely. A little anger, but rather more guilty relief. Curiosity. Rammi could feel the rumour running through the student body. Some rumours took weeks to reach everyone, but this one was in a hurry. Someone was actually passing it by word of mouth. Rammi glanced jealously at Schuldig, who could clearly 'hear' what was happening.

Rammi spotted his mother dashing through the corridors. "What's going on?" he called out.

"Crawford iz free again. 'ertz is 'aving ze kittens," she explained. "I told 'him Crawford would die."

Schuldig smiled at the news. The other students who dared to loiter between lessons took the news with varying degrees of shock and disinterest, though those who had had Crawford as a teacher for the short period he had been one seemed encouraged by the news.

"I must go," Madame DuBois spluttered, and teetered away at a fast totter in heels that embarrassed Rammi. Parents ought to have some dignity.

Schuldig's head snapped around. "Parents?" he murmured.

Rammi held his eye. "You knew one of my parents had to be a talent," he pointed out far more calmly than he felt.

"One of the three in charge here. One of the three who hopes to replace the Estet, the top three, when they eventually pass on," Schuldig smirked menacingly. "No wonder you do so well for yourself. Hertz must loath you."

"It's more than mutual," Rammi said openly.

"I heard she'd had several children," Schuldig went on. "I mean, it's well known your mother is a slut." He paused, but Rammi didn't rise to the bait. "So were you bred, or just coincidence?"

"Coincidence," Rammi said. "She never cared much for those that were bred. My father," he added, "was the man who gave you the name you currently bear."

Schuldig frowned. "What, Crawford?" he gave Rammi an incredulous look.

"No, the clerk who added you to the register," Rammi said patiently.

"Oh, him?" Schuldig said nonchalantly.

"Yes. Are we done, or shall we start talking about your family?" Rammi said bitingly. The minute the issue had come up he'd sensed a little wistfulness and jealousy on Schuldig's behalf. Schuldig himself probably had no idea they were there, but it was just another example of how powerful Rammi was.

"They're dead," Schuldig said bluntly. He shot Rammi a sideways look. "Be careful of over using your influence," he said smoothly. "Hertz doesn't like those who play favourites. That's why he never had much truck with Crawford."

"He can't afford to kill mother," Rammi said smugly.

"He can kill you," Schuldig pointed out, and flashed a wide, toothy grin. "Perhaps you better leave Nagi alone, yes?"

"What use do you have for him?" Rammi asked suspiciously. "I've never understood why you have such an interest in him."

"Sometimes there isn't a reason. That's how you can tell we're actually friends," Schuldig said bitingly. "Thank you for all you've told me. I'll be sure to pass it on to Nagi, naturally. Goodbye."


	45. Shattered

**Shattered**

In the original plan, Brad was going to remain locked up for another few months, but I couldn't see Schuldig remembering to keep feeding him that long. I'm trying to get this fic wrapped up rather soon (we're on the downhill slope, in that there's one more minor arc and one more character arc to sort out). Things aren't quite following my plan now, and I'm writing something that, in the rewrite, I might change. There is going to be a rewrite, once this is completely finished. I need to make a decision about whether I'm going to include anything out of the drama CDs, and whether this will really be a prequel to NRNR or not. Possibly more extensive planning should have taken place before I began, but then, I thought I'd have finished this within twenty chapters. Heh.

They'd shaved his head. After he'd gone to the trouble of dying his hair they'd shaved it all off. They patched up his eye and put him in large padded mittens, so he couldn't hold anything. It was worse than any straitjacket. Not that he wasn't in one of those too.

Farfarello laughed in the coldness of the stark room. A man in a white coat glanced over at him. Farfarello grinned at him. He could still move his mouth and his eyes, if nothing else. They didn't like the fact he could move his jaw, though. They'd had to file down his teeth. Three of the lab assistants had lost fingers before they settled on using a cone, like you would fit on a dog with stitches, to keep him from chewing holes in himself, though it didn't ensure their safety. That, combined with the straitjacket and the iron frame they had strapped him to had made it next to impossible for him to ruin the body built in God's image.

The iron frame reminded Farfarello of a stick man without arms. The straitjacket wrapped around it, so the iron pole of the back followed his spine and the jacket was tied to it in the centre. Tough leather belts held him to it at the ankles, thighs, waist and neck. He could just about walk if he had someone on each side holding him up, but he'd never manage stairs. Mostly they carried him around. In his saner moments he worried about what this was doing to his knees. He couldn't bend them. He could barely flex his ankles. Looking down his legs might as well have belonged to someone else, for all he could do. Walking was going to be difficult, when they finally released him.

If they finally released him.

Farfarello couldn't help but wonder.

* * *

Crawford found himself sitting in Hertz's office, slumped in what had no doubt been a student in some dark distant past. To his shame he hadn't been able to walk there unaided, hadn't been able to walk period, and a telekinetic sat beside him making certain he stayed in the chair. Even more embarrassing was the fact that Brad really did need the help to remain seated. His limbs had given up and he couldn't even find the grip to remain in the seat. Still, the sleepy-eyed girl with her paltry powers gave Crawford an idea.

"I'd really rather you'd died," Hertz said bluntly. "I wonder if you could possibly be any more inconvenient."

"I don't really have the energy," Crawford smiled emptily.

"And now, of course, I have to make certain you get better." Hertz had an expression of extreme distaste. Crawford's stomach twisted at the idea of what the malicious small man might do to him. Healers could wreak all kinds of havoc that only other healers could undo. Hertz had reached the top of the heap by being less than powerful, and Crawford doubted that there'd be anyone who could undo his work.

"Save your energy," Crawford said firmly. "I'll recover on my own."

"You mean you'll lie around in bed taking up valuable resources," Hertz spat. 

"Give me a telekinetic," Crawford said, forcing himself not to think of what an angry Hertz might do to him, compared with when he merely hated the American. "I'll teach him like I taught the telepath, and in turn he can aid me until I have fully recovered. I will happily still teach, I just lack the ability to reach the correct rooms."

"You say 'him'," Hertz observed coldly.

Crawford kicked himself mentally. Of course. "Nagi Naoe," he admitted. "The boy has the added advantage of being Japanese, and can help with decoding some of the more archaic intricies of the language used in the dossier."

"He's powerful, and he's got a good knowledge of computers," Hertz said flatly. "I'm not putting someone like that in your hands. Have Sarah," he gestured to the slack jawed girl in the room.

Crawford looked at the girl. "No," he said simply. 

Crawford wondered if Hertz knew that Nagi had been the one to release him. Probably not, though he suspected something. It would be foolish to assume Hertz knew nothing about Nagi's involvement with Schuldig, but the fact that the boy was still alive seemed promising. Maybe Hertz didn't know about the scanned dossier?

"You're opinion is of no consequence," Hertz told him.

"Is mine?" said a nasal voice from the doorway.

"No," Hertz said. "Leave," he added.

"Give him Nagi," Schuldig said. Brad recognised the slight double tone to the voice that signified the telepathic emphasis place on the words. He wondered if this was because Schuldig was being clumsy, or whether perhaps his experience with Schuldig inserting his own thoughts into Crawford's brain had given him some link to the young man's powers.

"Don't play those games with me," Hertz snarled. "I've more experience with telepathy than you'll have by the time you die."

"You're just scared," Schuldig dismissed the balding healer. "You, May and DuBois have held your positions too long. You're waiting for young guns like us to topple you, like you toppled whoever was here when you arrived."

"Herr Jackson?" Hertz raised an eyebrow. "The man was a fool. He stood alone. He slept alone." The laugh was pure indulgence. Crawford wondered what ornament or trophy had once been the luckless Jackson.

"What are your ambitions, Hertz?" Schuldig purred. "Where are you going?"

"I'm not going anywhere," Hertz said calmly. "So this seat will never be vacated."

"You're old," Schuldig laughed. "How much longer do you have?"

Crawford grimaced. Hertz didn't look that old, and Madame Dubois and Mr May were hardly elderly themselves. But something... Madame Dubois had been training seers since before Crawford was born, she'd mentioned once during one of their sessions, back when Crawford was still a student. And Mr May had an unnatural attachment to a World War One plane. Crawford resolved to find someone who remembered Herr Jackson. He wanted to know precisely when Hertz had become governor of Rosenkreuz.

"I have longer than you do," Hertz said grimly.

"Is that a threat?" Schuldig laughed.

"No, it wasn't," Brad murmured softly, dread sickening him. Schuldig shouldn't laugh at this man, this institute. 

"Why are you here, boy?" Hertz frowned. "You loathe this man."

"I do," Schuldig acknowledged bitterly. "But Nagi is easily cowed, for all this power. Madame Dubois's son has taken an unhealthy interest in him. Nagi doesn't want to attract interest here, but he has been making ties since he arrived."

"He has a great deal of patronage among the more superior students," Hertz acknowledged. "We are aware of his power."

Are you aware of his potential? Crawford wondered. He doubted Hertz knew anything about the cause of the earthquake, though he hardly knew more himself. And then, Madame Dubois's son? He supposed that must be the leech boy Schuldig had come to him about when Crawford wanted to take him to collect Farfarello. Schuldig was right, it was an unhealthy interest. Nagi had spent too long getting to know this boy. 

When you went to Rosenkreuz you ceased to believe in friendship. 

"Use him," Schuldig persisted. He couldn't meet Crawford's eyes, not that he would have anyway. Still, he wasn't entirely comfortable with what he was saying. He sounded like Crawford. Ambitious, uncaring. When you had thoughts battering you day and night it took a lot of pull off that kind of nonchalance without falling into the sociopath trap. It was hard to project the idea that he really didn't care about Nagi, but soon it wouldn't be a matter of projection. Schuldig wasn't sure whether the anticipation he held that day in was fearful or hopeful.

"The boy is nothing special," Hertz dismissed him. "He has some talent, true, but there will always be many like him. The leech boy can keep him. Your interest is suspicious, and I know you believe the child has an exceptional intellect, which I don't doubt, and an impressive power, which reminds me how young you children are." He smirked superciliously. "You are children. You must be disciplined."

Discipline. There was one technique employed at Rosenkreuz that not even the most old fashioned of boarding schools would dare employ. Brad suppressed a shudder and a calculating look lit in Schuldig's eyes. Four men entered the room, all as slimy and sadistic as Hertz. Crawford was half-marched half-dragged away, while Schuldig refused to be touch and simply walked between his would-be rapists.

Crawford was surprised to be taken back to the rooms he had once known as his own. He fought as they lay him down on his own bed, and laughed with bitter humours as they removed his clothes and hung them up in his own wardrobe. Lying on his own bed, which had only been used for this once before. Used to prevent this.

They weren't rough at first. Somewhere in Crawford's mind he thought they'd both try to take him at once, but the mechanics of that baffled him. He'd expected them to do it bare and dry, but lube and condoms were produced. One of them started to touch himself and Crawford watched in sick fascination as the hand jerked up and down. At least they didn't prepare him like Schuldig had, that first time. He would have broken at that point. Instead he was left with the bitter pain, hot and sharp and repetitive. He didn't scream. Schuldig had spent so many months trying to break his mind, and these two strangers were destroying him. The pain, the humiliation, the shame, the anger, the fear...

* Hush, * he was soothed. * It's okay. *

Brad sent wordless fury to the owner of the voice. Okay? Hah.

The second man was an illusionist; the one Brad himself had brought to Rosenkreuz. He smiled at Brad and the lips twisted into a familiar smirk. Brad closed his eyes but a coldly slicked finger to a raw and bleeding place had them open again. He stared into a familiar face.

"No," he croaked.

"Guten tag," the mirage laughed, his N'awlins drawl mangling the German.

"No!" Brad spat at him. His partner sighed and moved behind Brad to hold him down. Horror filled Brad at the idea he might have had the option to escape before.

"Don't play these games. You know Herr Hertz won't appreciate it."

"He don't care," the fake red head laughed. It was the old Schuldig Brad was looking at, he reminded himself, but that didn't make it better. The orange hair and wide eyes belonged to the boy Brad had taken to this bed and rejected and regretted it. "He hates the man."

"You want to send him insane? He's needed."

* Remember, one day they will be dead at our hands, * a voice warmed him. * You didn't strike me as the type to forget a little thing like that. *

Let them die now. Let them die painfully. Let them die now and make this stop.

* Let them die painfully, * Schuldig echoed. 

Brad stared down the length of his body. The image before him and the voice in his head had confused his body, he told himself. He wasn't getting off on th-

* Come here, * Schuldig told him. * You don't need to be present for what happens next. *

Brad followed willingly, meek and desperate. He escaped his body, because his body couldn't escape them. Schuldig's head was hardly a more comforting place to be, but the ex-prostitute took the brutality of his situation with alarming calm. 

* It's not a matter of yes or no or willingness, * Schuldig told him. *I feed off them, sometimes, making myself enjoy this by pretending their enjoyment is my own. They begin to think I'm willing after a while. But it's all relative. *

I don't understand how you managed to do this for a living, Brad told him. He was vulnerable here, and he didn't like feeling vulnerable, but he preferred it to feeling violated.

* It's worse afterwards, * Schuldig warned him. * Cleaning yourself up. * He pulled Brad further in, more aware of what was happening to Brad's apparently catatonic body than Brad was. * Sometimes, when you're given a choice between rape and, well, whatever the choice happens to be, it's not really a choice. You're not saying yes, and you're not willing, but you try to make the best of a bad job. You take what you're given and you're grateful for it. *

Brad's consciousness curled in on itself and Schuldig caught a glimpse of Brad's father, lips moving to echo his own words. Schuldig wanted to comfort him, but he also wanted to rub it in. His feelings for Brad were still confusing him and ripping him apart. Judging by the illusionist's choice of chimera Brad hadn't exactly found closure either.

* We'll kill them, * Schuldig reiterated. * Don't let go of that. I can feel you letting go. *

I don't want to go back, Brad told him miserably. Can I stay?

* Yes, I'll have a split personality for the rest of my life, * Schuldig told him dryly. * You'll get over it, Crawford. Hertz has taken away your control, your power. He's done it before. He let me chain you up in a dungeon for six months. He likes it when you feel weak. When they are gone take a shower, take a look at that dossier. Boss someone around. Go and take a lesson and yell at them a bit. *

Brad shuddered. He knew what Schuldig was trying to do, and it didn't fit with anything Schuldig had told him before. Schuldig was trying to help him cope, teach him how to get through it. He was being compassionate. Brad could feel the anger beneath that, anger he knew Schuldig must feel due to him, but none of the oft-mentioned hatred. Still, his head was far from a pleasant place to be, and Brad could almost see the cracks spider-webbing across his sanity. 

* That's yours, * Schuldig told him. 

_Because this is quite a short chapter (one of the reasons I held back from posting it originally) and because the following is quite a short fic, it's bonus fic time! Basically, LadyJaida said she liked it, and I love what she writes, so I felt like sharing. It has absolutely nothing to do with OUAN and contains Gluhen spoilers._

**It's not your business**

"Hand over the girl."

"Why?"

Schuldig leant back against the wall, one hand resting lightly on Aya-chan's arm. This worried Mamoru more than he wanted to let on. Who knew what that telepath had done to her this time? He hadn't even been able to establish how long he'd had her. It had been three weeks since Estet wrenched her from the flowershop. How much of that time had she spent in their hands, and how much in his?

"Kritiker will handle this," he said firmly.

"Kritiker doesn't know the first fucking thing about Estet, and this is all about Estet." Schuldig's vehemence surprised both of them. Aya-chan shot him a frightened look and he smiled reassuringly, albeit briefly. Mamoru's stomach churned. "If you want to keep her safe, she stays with me."

"Kritiker has resources you can't begin to imagine," Mamoru insisted. "Hand the girl over."

"I don't take orders from Takatoris."

"Oh, really?" Mamoru smirked despite himself. 

"Not any more," Schuldig growled. It seemed he hadn't taken kindly to being caught out like that. And when he got angry, he got sloppy. Mamoru folded his arms smugly. "Now, if it were Tsukiyono Omi coming here and asking to be given control over the situation, sure, I'd do it," Schuldig went on, eyes narrowing. "But Takatori Mamoru just turning up and demanding power over this mess? No way."

"You killed Tsukiyono Omi." Mamoru's voice was frightening cold.

"No, you did. I just made him cry a lot."

"Nagi." The young man stepped forwards at his name. Mamoru gestured.

"Nagi?" Schuldig stared at his former team mate. "Wait, kid, what are you..."

**end******


	46. Breaking Point

**Breaking point**

Schuldig was thinking about Nagi. He could have thought about Brad, but that made him want to go to Brad, and that wasn't going to be good for either of them.

"Bastard," Schuldig told the empty room. "Couldn't just have died."

So he thought about Nagi again. Thought about Rammi. Thought about Nagi's sleep problems that had driven him to Rammi.

Okay, conceivably the telempath could fight off the nightmares. It didn't take a genius to work out that Nagi had been having nightmares. Certainly didn't surprise Schuldig, who had nightmares every night that were rarely his own.

Maybe it would help if he went to Nagi and spoke to him. Asked him. He doubted the kid would talk to him though. He could understand that, but he couldn't understand why he had spoken to Rammi. If he had. 

Nagi didn't seem the type to just talk to someone, especially not someone he didn't trust. Schuldig knew perfectly well that Nagi had fallen out with Rammi over the whole leech issue. But Rammi clearly knew what was going on, and Nagi was relying on him. That wasn't good. Nagi needed to avoid relying on people. Nagi didn't need to rely on people, not with that power behind him, and the sooner he learnt that the better.

So Rammi knew what was going on. Schuldig stared at the ceiling. So if Nagi hadn't gone to him about the problem then he must have gone to Nagi, right? Challenged him, maybe. Or threatened him. Yes, that could easily be it. Maybe he'd seen that Nagi wasn't sleeping well and tried to take advantage of that weakness to steal his power. Schuldig would have felt it in Nagi's mind if Rammi had succeeded though, felt it in Rammi's mind, at that.

But Rammi had definitely been telling the truth when he said Nagi came to him. So...

Schuldig shook his head. Stupid people. He'd said Nagi was his friend, and he'd meant it. But was that true from Nagi's point of view? Probably no more than Rammi was his friend.

Crawford didn't believe in friends. There were just allies and minions and people to brown-nose to and sycophants. Crawford saw himself as the top of the heap. Everyone was inferior. Even the people who were above him. They just weren't inferior yet, that was all. Sooner or later they would be. And Crawford could never befriend someone he saw as inferior.

Schuldig knew Crawford saw him as inferior. Not in terms of power, or intellect, or ambition... It was class. Schuldig had been a prostitute. Crawford had been a whatever. Something in a suit. As far as Crawford was concerned, Schuldig was socially inferior, and hence morally inferior. Or possibly the other way around. And what sent Schuldig round the bend was that it was nothing he'd ever had control over.

Damn. Thinking about Crawford again. He could feel him, small and weak somewhere. Crawford had pushed too far into his mind that night, running away from himself. There was a link now in the hindbrain, deeper than any other Schuldig had forged. Even Greg wouldn't see it.

There was another link he'd forged, but that was from rooting around in someone else's head too deeply. He could bring the face into his mind's eye and felt the mind behind it respond. On the psychic plane, Farfarello waved. Schuldig waved back.

Farfarello. Nagi had formed some kind of bond with him as well. Of all the people Nagi knew, Farfarello was probably the one he deemed closest to being a friend. Farfarello had never asked him for anything.

A plan formed. 

* * *

Brad slumped over the desk in front of the class. He wanted to be sick. He retched and swallowed and tried to ignore the burning in his throat. Someone in the back of the room laughed. Brad wanted to raise his head and shout, but he didn't dare.

"Started drinking again?" someone shouted. Post-cognitive, Brad guessed correctly.

His head hurt like hurt. Every limb throbbed and ached. His stomach rolled. Sitting down still made pain wrap itself hot and tight around his insides.

Every night he'd have a glass of wine to ease the pain, then another to get rid of the memories, then a third to help him sleep, and a fourth because by that point it seemed like a good idea, and things went down hill from there. Never more than one bottle, of course. He'd made a point of installing a lock on the cupboard holding the wine, a complex lock he'd never manage when drunk.

He could raise his head, he could stand up, he could command a little respect from these kids. Or he could just lie there and leave them to have a bit of fun, the only fun they'd ever get in this place. He felt for them

"Que esta?" a voice asked.

Crawford sighed. Taking on final deep breath he raised his head and stared around the room. No one was watching him now. He'd ceased to be entertaining. A few bits of paper were airborne, and a few curses were sailing across the room to accompany them, but most of the class was still where they had been. They couldn't fight properly, not when they had no idea what they were saying to each other. And they were cowed. These kids had been here less than a month and they were already cowed.

"The meaning of life," Crawford's voice cut through the punctuated murmur, "the universe, and everything in it is forty two."

Silence.

He was entertaining again.

* * *

"Oh, the kid's dreaming about the man he killed," Farfarello said nonchalantly. "But I wouldn't mind talking to him anyway."

Schuldig pouted.

Farfarello looked at him, single pupil shrinking and widening as it tried to focus on Schuldig in the soft light. Schuldig had walked in the white tiled room and straight out again, using his power to insist, in his own words, that they "Turn the bloody fucking lights off!"

"How have you been?" Farfarello asked softly.

Schuldig shrugged. "So when did Nagi kill someone? And why does he need a telempath to help him?"

"I've been okay," Farfarello said. "The men in white coats don't talk to me much, and they don't touch me unless I'm sedated first. They use an elephant gun."

"I'm here to talk about Nagi," Schuldig said impatiently. "Do you know how many people I'm distracting right now?"

"The guy Nagi killed," Farfarello shrugged, or rather twitched. "Could you loosen the straitjacket?"

"No," Schuldig snarled. "Who did Nagi kill?"

"A man," Farfarello said, slowly growing determined to be as contrary as possible.

Schuldig sighed with exasperation. His head darted in quickly and he placed a rough kiss on Farfarello's mouth. Farfarello tried to respond but Schuldig was already pulling away.

"Who did Nagi kill?" he asked.

"Someone who hurt him," Farfarello sighed. "Rapist, I think. Happened when he was friends with Rammi. And you," he added pointedly.

"So why would he go to Rammi? Why isn't he coming to me?" Schuldig whined.

"Do you come to him?" Farfarello snapped.

Schuldig cocked his head to one side and frowned. "What's that meant to mean?" he demanded.

Farfarello fell obstinately silence. Even with Schuldig's mental probing and physical punching he kept his mouth shut. Outside the gathered technicians wished they could reproduce the effect.

When Schuldig eventually left, stomping and storming through the complex, Farfarello let his head fall, and that subdued mood lasted. The scientists didn't pay much attention to him as they ran their checks and checked their calculations. Maybe they should have Herr Schuldig visit more often. He seemed to be a calming influence on the madman. They discussed it and forgot the madman could hear.

None of them noticed the tears that rolled down the scarred cheek. Even if it was under duress, he knew he'd appreciate the visits.

* * *

"I thought we'd try something different tonight," Rammi told Nagi. 

Nagi eyed him warily. "Different how?" he asked suspiciously.

"I want you to try and stay awake."

"You mean you're really tired from defending my mind, so if I'm awake you can get some sleep?" Nagi snorted, relaxing again. 

They were lying together in Rammi's bunk, and Rammi had been playing with Nagi's damp hair just before he asked his first question. It didn't take a genius to work out what had gone through Nagi's mind, but it upset Rammi. If someone had asked the same of him he wouldn't have assumed they were going to have sex. He didn't like this world at all, sometimes.

"No," Rammi grimaced. Another chance to learn something about the boy coming right up. "I'm going to let your night stalker in."

Okay, so he didn't find it as disturbing as the idea of having sex. Now to work out if that was good or bad.

Oh, right, it didn't matter. Nagi was going to die anyway, some time soon. No point getting attached.

"Why?" Nagi asked quietly. Not 'no', but 'why'. That was trust.

"I want to get rid of him altogether," Rammi said earnestly. "It helps if you're awake, because it will be easier to distinguish your mental patterns. See, he usually attacks while you're asleep because it's easier to disguise himself in your REM patterns, and it's only a small shift to turn them into his own. Well, that's probably not how he'd put it, but the Labs are turning out this kind of stuff all the time."

"You came from the Labs, didn't you?" Nagi asked softly. Oh wonderful, compassion. Did Nagi know how hard he was making this?

"Been speaking to Schuldig, have you?" Rammi asked with forced casualness. "Yeah, I did spend chunks of my childhood in the Labs. Born there. But I wasn't bred."

"No one ever said you were," Nagi said, not to sooth but to clarify.

"Heh," Rammi dismissed it. "Does it bother you, where I come from?"

Nagi shook his head. "Who was the talent?" he asked curiously.

"Who? Oh, you mean which parent. My mother, though my father's part of the organisation as well." Rammi couldn't keep his lip from curling in disgust. "It's better than having completed untalented parents, though, I suppose. Not like those poor sods they're breeding no, taking people they know aren't talents and mixing and matching DNA in the attempt to work out what bit makes what talent."

"Have they found anything interesting?" Nagi's eyes widened.

Rammi shrugged. "I don't make a point of going down there, though I don't get that irrational terror reaction most students seem to. Honestly, it's just a laboratory. The people who work there are just that, people." He learnt back on his elbows, crossing his ankles and staring at the ceiling bare inches from his nose. "Oh, some students get hurt, but it's ever more than they deserve. Most are happier, you know. Well, when they realise they're going to die, they are. For some people that's the only good thing about being alive."

"I've been there," said Nagi dryly. "But the part that scares me is that the technicians are human. I couldn't cut open someone's head while they were cursing me and my family for generations. I couldn't lock a sane person in an empty room and wait patiently to see how long before they went mad."

"Someone has to do it," Rammi opinioned.

"It would be nice to live in a world where they didn't," Nagi observed without emotion. "Some questions shouldn't need answers."

"Some questions shouldn't need to be asked," Rammi agreed. "But this is the world we live in."

"Or not, in the case of some of the study subjects," Nagi said. Rammi glanced at him and laughed at the dark humour. It was Nagi's sense of humour, to make statements like that for others to laugh at. He judged people by how they reacted. He didn't make jokes, not Nagi, but he said things that could go either way and he watched to see which way listeners went. Rammi wondered who he looked down on more, those who failed to get the subtle humour, or those who found it funny.

"So, are you willing?" Rammi cursed as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Nagi looking vulnerable was doing nothing for his resolve. "To try my plan?" he finished hastily.

"Oh. Yes, I guess so," Nagi shrugged. Calm acceptance radiated from him. "If you don't fail to cast him out I die, right?"

"In essence," Rammi admitted. He stared at the wide-eyed boy. He bit his lip. He stared everywhere accept at the wide-eyed boy. He picked at his fingernails. He stared at Nagi again. "Let's do it another night," he announced abruptly. "I... I'm not up to it right now. Better if we both get more rest. I couldn't bear to get it wrong," he said honestly.

Nagi smiled. "I really can trust you, can't I?" he smiled, nestling against Rammi's chest.


	47. Unreality

**Chapter Forty-Three – Unreality**

Nagi wrapped his arms tightly around himself and let Schuldig guide him through the complex. The German didn't look any happier than Nagi felt, but Nagi figured that Schuldig must have it even worse, being a telepath, and the fact he wasn't curled up in a ball sobbing was testament to his ability. The grim smile that cropped up occasionally kept making Nagi want to pull away.

"I think he misses you," Schuldig remarked casually as they approached the end of a corridor.

"Jei? Really?" Nagi's eyes widened and his heart thumped.

The grim smile reappeared again, and Nagi shivered despite himself. "He likes you," Schudig said.

"Oh! I'm… glad." Nagi wondered if he was blushing.

"Do you want to see him alone?" Schuldig asked, eyes bright. Nagi wondered how much Schuldig had worked out. He nodded mutely, feeling very young and inexperienced.

Schuldig opened the heavy iron door for him and beckoned the technicians out of the room. Nagi stumbled in and jumped as the door clanged shut behind him.

"Jei?" he called softly.

"It is Farfarello now," a voice came from the corner of the room. Nagi trotted over and found Farfarello strapped to a narrow bed. It didn't look particularly comfortable, and Nagi tugged mentally on the thick leather straps. They didn't give at all.

"Sorry, I forgot," Nagi lied. "How are you?" He asked helplessly.

"Schuldig didn't ask," Farfarello sighed. "I'm lonely, that's what I am." Nagi couldn't find a hand to squeeze, so he settled for a shoulder. "Did he make you come?"

Nagi frowned. "He suggested it, but once I knew that I could come, I wanted to. Does that make sense?"

"Aye," Farfarello smiled. "Your English is getting really good, you know."

"Oh, that's because of Rammi," Nagi smiled at the compliment, but couldn't understand why Farfarello's face soured so quickly. "Has Schuldig… has he told you what he thinks we ought to do?"

"Aye," Farfarello tried to nod, but the cone and collar around his neck made it impossible. "I'm looking forwards to it. Some of this just doesn't make sense, though."

Nagi fidgeted. "I know," he sighed. "But at least it will all be over, one way or another."

Farfarello frowned.

"I started, last night," Nagi went on. "To put the plan into action. But Rammi changed his mind suddenly. I mean, I trust him, well, I don't, but I expect him to do as he says he will. It's just, I'd rather have you or Schuldig there to help out, just in case."

Farfarello looked baffled, but Nagi didn't seem to notice. Whatever plan Schuldig had told Nagi, it wasn't the same as the one he'd detailed to Farfarello. But he probably knew more than Nagi about what was going on, Farfarello told himself.

"I miss you," Nagi said suddenly, interrupting Farfarello's deepening suspicions. "I like you. I don't really like anyone else. I mean, Schuldig's okay, and so is Rammi, but I can't trust either of them, and I know they're both just using me."

"Yeah. Schuldig does that," Farfarello agreed bitterly.

"Are they ever going to let you out?" Nagi asked softly.

"No. They keep telling me they will, if I'm good, but then they place bets on which treatment is most likely to kill me within my hearing. They forget I'm real."

It was a funny way of putting it, Nagi mused, but it was true. Farfarello was just a plastic doll to them. They were all plastic dolls to the corporation. Action Model #664 with opposable legs. Action model #763 with light up eyes and realistic plastic flames. Action model #409 with genuine straitjacket and other restraints. You weren't real here. But then, Nagi thought, he'd never felt real 'outside', either. He belonged in a comic book full of supervillains and plot holes you could drive the good guy's torpedo-laden Jaguar through. At least here he was among people like him.

The problem with that, Nagi realised suddenly, was that now it was the rest of the world who didn't seem real. That was how the Lab technicians thought, too. Only other technicians were real. Farfarello wasn't.

"I'll get you out," Nagi promised.

"How?"

"I'll kill them all," Nagi shrugged. Hey, if they weren't real to the technicians, it could go both ways, right?

Farfarello grinned. "Fun. Can I help?"

"You think I'd hog all the fun?" Nagi smiled back.

"You're an odd bairn," Farfarello looked at him through the single eye. Nagi had no idea what 'bairn' meant, but he knew what 'odd' did. "I guess we all are. You'll really get me out of here?"

"Of course! If I'm still around to," Nagi added as an afterthought.

"Come and visit, anyway," Farfarello told him.

"Definitely." They stared at each other. "Schuldig's nagging me to go," Nagi said awkwardly.

"He can wait," Farfarello said firmly. "He'll only come back later to get out of me everything you've said."

"Should I just tell him?" Nagi asked, leaning back.

"No," Farfarello sighed. "I'll appreciate the visit."

Nagi blinked at him. He reached out and tentatively brushed Farfarello's cheek, fingers tracing the scaring around his eye. He knew Farfarello couldn't feel anything in the puckered socket. It looked weird, but not repulsive. He lingered, there, leaning over the body bound to the bed. He could feel the heat radiating off of the older teen. It took strength of will to keep from just climbing on the bed and lying down beside him. Nagi looked down to find himself level with Farfarello's head. The tawny eye held his gaze steadily, despite the obvious flush on Nagi's cheeks and the way his breathing was hitching in his throat.

"How old are you?" Farfarello asked quietly.

"Twelve," Nagi managed. God, that sounded young. He wasn't that young, not really. "You?" he asked lightly.

"Sixteen, I suppose," Farfarello smiled. "Not so old."

"No," Nagi breathed

*Oh, just kiss him already! * a voice exploded in Nagi's consciousness. He cried out and stumbled away from the bed, collapsing back onto the floor.

"Nagi?" Farfarello strained on the bed. "What happened?"

"I'm okay," Nagi panted. His eyes and nose burned, but he swallowed back the tears. Only little kids cried when they fell over.

Farfarello continued to fight the restraints. "I can't see you!"

"I'm still here," Nagi said softly. He couldn't quite summon the desire to get up just yet. "I'm okay."

Farfarello collapsed back to the bed, breathing heavily. "I want to see you," he gasped.

Nagi struggled to his feet and forced himself back over to the bed. "I'm here," he said again. Sweat was running down Farfarello's face. It must sting, Nagi thought vaguely. But then, if he can't feel pain, would he feel that? He didn't dare brush it away though. Farfarello blinked impatiently.

"Schuldig?" Farfarello asked.

"Yeah. He surprised me," Nagi shrugged. He glanced down at the belts "Hey," he said suddenly, "this one's almost off. How hard did you struggle?" he asked incredulously.

Farfarello grinned ferally. "As hard as I felt necessary," he purred. 

"Oh!" Nagi glanced away, pleased.

The door opened. "Look," Schuldig said, sticking his head around it, "this is all very sweet and such, but I'm bored now. If you don't want to get lost, come now."

Nagi sighed "I'll come back," he promised, brushing Farfarello's face again.

"Aye," Farfarello smiled. "You do that." And as the slim fingers passed over his lips he kissed them, quickly. Nagi jumped slightly at the sensation, and ducked his head in pleased embarrassment at Schuldig's leer. He pressed the blessed fingers to his own lips and stood for a second letting the sensation linger as long as he could.

"Goodbye," he murmured, glancing down at Farfarello one last time, and trotted across the room to follow Schuldig away. 

For reasons he couldn't divine, Schuldig seemed upset. Nagi walked beside him, not really listening or caring, but occasionally words like "damn adolescent" and "bastard hormones" and "didn't even mention God once" penetrated.

Farfarello had kissed him. Wasn't that just amazing?

* * *

Schuldig gave up, and went to see Brad. Officially, he was going to see if the older man could spot any obvious flaws in his plan. Unofficially, he wanted to see if Brad really was getting as drunk as rumour would have it, and whether he'd be up for a quick shag because of it.

And only the completely insane would believe that he was going to check if Brad was okay.

He knocked and cursed himself. Though it turned out the door was locked anyway, so he could just pretend he'd tried it before knocking. After what seemed like eternity the door opened. 

Well, he was definitely drinking again.

Schuldig tried to pry the drunken older man off him, but the hug was tighter than most torture devices. He gave up and returned it instead, closing his mind to any subconscious suggestions.

Slowly he manoeuvred Brad back into the apartment. Still obsessively clean, Schuldig noticed, slightly relieved. Brad swayed slightly in his arms. Schuldig managed to deposit him against the kitchen side, propping him against the cupboard so he could stand back and get a proper look at his former mentor.

"You're not dealing with this, are you?" he sighed.

Brad shook his head. "Not dealing," he echoed.

Schuldig shrugged. "Well, I guess if booze works for you…" it was all the advice he could offer. He wasn't a psychiatrist; his method of dealing had been Class A drugs and prostitution. In comparison Brad seemed to be holding up pretty well.

"Want some?" Brad offered unsteadily. Schuldig took the bottle off him and drank straight from it. Brad frowned. "You can't ap-pre-ci-ate it like that."

"It's not about the taste," Schuldig said scathingly.

"Huh. True," Brad nodded. "Why ar'ou here?" he asked, words running together.

Schuldig stared at the ceiling, trying to think. "A plan," he said eventually, falling back on officially. "I wanted to run it by you, to see if you could spot any flaws I hadn't."

"D'you still respect my judgement?" Brad asked curiously.

"It looks like it," Schuldig gestured aimlessly. "I may hate you, but that doesn't mean you're not smart. I respect you."

"I don't," Brad declared. "Respectable p'ple don'get drunk e'ery night."

"You'd be surprised," Schuldig said dryly.

Brad seemed to consider this for a moment. "I think I'm sick," he declared eventually.

"I know how that feels," Schuldig told him. "You're not, though."

"Sick in the head?" Brad frowned at him.

"Not at all," Schuldig said gently. "But if you convince yourself you are, you will be."

The logic of that was a bit much for Brad to follow after a bottle and a half of wine. More than usual, but he'd foreseen Schuldig's arrival halfway through the first bottle, by which point he was too drunk to realise that the last thing he wanted was to be drunk in front of Schuldig. Again.

"What do I do?" Brad asked helplessly.

"I don't think anyone knows the answer to that," Schuldig told him.

Brad sank down against the cupboard. "You dealt," he said dully.

Schuldig grimaced. "Did I?" he asked softly.

Brad looked up at him. "Sit," he commanded. "'splain."

"Is it rape if you say yes? Are you really saying yes if the alternatives are worse? Does it count as enjoying it if you're stealing their feelings?" Schuldig asked rhetorically, sitting next to Brad and slinging arm around the older man's waist more out of habit than any conscious compulsion.

Brad looked him up and down. "You're not dealing," he said slowly, "because you made yourself think there wasn't anything to deal with?"

"I don't know," Schuldig sighed, letting his head fall back against the cupboard with a soft thunk. "I stopped caring. It's just a body. It's not me."

"When it gets worn out both it and you will be gone," Brad pointed out.

"I know," Schuldig squeezed his eyes shut. "But really, when I think about it, worse things have happened to me. Except, at the time, I rationalised those with the same answer. Everything is the worse thing that's ever happened to me, and nothing is the worst thing."

"You're very, uh…" Brad trailed off. "Eloquent," he eventually recovered.

"You've never told me that before," Schuldig said, smiling slightly.

"Come back to class," Brad said. "You're never there. How are you going to learn anything?"

"I don't know. Experience?" Schuldig suggested. "You want me in your lessons?"

Brad nodded. "I like you better as a pupil."

"I quite liked you as a teacher," Schuldig admitted.

Brad leant over and planted a slightly wet kiss on Schuldig's cheek. Schuldig's stomach clenched, and he remembered why he'd come. He pulled away gently and stood up. He offered a hand up to Brad, but the older man waved it away.

"As my teacher, I respect your judgment," Schuldig reminded him. "I need your opinion on our plan. I don't know when it goes into effect. Tonight, possibly."

"I'll try," Brad sighed. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it.

"You want some water first?" Schuldig offered. "Coffee?"

"Something to eat," Brad said firmly. "And water."

The water was easy, but Schuldig struggled to find anything edible. Eventually he unearthed some dried porridge oats at the back of a cupboard. He scowled at them. Plain porridge was bland enough, but made with water instead of milk? But then, Brad was pretty drunk. He probably wouldn't notice how bad it tasted.

"Explain it once, now," Brad commanded. "And then again."

Sometimes sober was more a matter of will than alcohol, Schuldig decided. He sketched the rough outline to Brad as he finished making the porridge. He tried a bit, shuddered, stuck a spoon in the saucepan and handed it straight to Brad. 

"I think," Brad said around spoonfuls, "Nagi's going to be upset."

"There's not much help for that," Schuldig admitted.

"Why did you come to ask me if you've already started it all?" Brad asked.

"Because I can still call a halt to this," Schuldig sighed. "I didn't mean it to start at all, but Rammi is working to his own schedule. I can't influence him."

"Nagi still trusts him," Brad sighed.

"He says he doesn't," Schuldig pointed out.

"He also says he doesn't trust you, but he followed you into the Labs," Crawford retaliated. To Schuldig's relief he seemed almost back to normal. Well, until he tried to pour wine into the porridge.

"Hey! We're sobering you up here," Schuldig intervened.

"Have you tried this?" Crawford pulled a face.

Schuldig snorted. "I was hoping you were too drunk to notice," he admitted. "You need to go shopping."

"I do, regularly," Crawford said stiffly.

"Somewhere other than the off-licence," Schuldig said dryly.

Crawford sighed. "Help me," he pleaded quietly.

"Help yourself," Schuldig said bluntly. "Do you see any other problems with my plan?"

"No," Crawford sighed, pushing the saucepan away. "I mean, Nagi's never going to talk to you again, and Farfarello will probably follow suit for different reasons, but I'm sure you'll be able to live with that," he said bitterly. "Oh, and you might have to kill Rammi."

"I don't know if I can do that," Schuldig said quietly. "I've never killed anyone before."

Brad's head snapped up. "I'm sure you…" he frowned. "Bravado?" he guessed.

Schuldig shrugged awkwardly. "What if I go down with them?" he asked. "I heard it can happen. When someone dies if there's a telepath in their dead the telepath's mind dies too, and you're left with a vegetable."

"Leave it to Farfarello," Brad suggested tiredly. He didn't need to see Schuldig vulnerable right now. He was already regretting the impulsive kiss, and he was still more than half drunk.

"I guess it all depends on how involved Rammi is," Schuldig sighed. "I'm suspicious, but I hope that Nagi's right for his sake. The kid's gone through enough betrayal."

Brad didn't ask.

"I suppose I should go," Schuldig said awkwardly.

Brad watched his retreating back with odd detachment. This must be what it was like for divorced couples, or any split couple forced into contact. That residue of sexual tension, the constant bitterness, the desperation to heal your own wounds however you could, be it through restarting the relationship or inflicting your wounds on your ex. 

The wine tasted sour, so Brad went to bed. 

I absolutely love Nagi in this chapter. It's nice he's got something to be happy about, because the next few chapters are complete hell for him.


	48. Fractured

**Fractured**

Nagi tried to sleep. It shouldn't be hard, not after nights of nightmares and days of dreams. Rammi was at his side almost constantly, but that didn't seem to help. Dark fingers ran through darker hair as Rammi tried to soothe the agitated boy. The stroking was calming, Nagi decided, but that wasn't going to be nearly enough.

He was twelve. He was rapidly becoming an adult. He was thinking about Farfarello and shuddered under his own touch, pretending to himself that it was the Irishman stroking his hair. The gentle hand paused for a second, and he heard a grunt of suppressed laughter, then it resumed.

Somewhere barely overhead, a storm boomed. The cloud surrounded the top of the mountain on which Rosenkreuz squatted. Lightening flashed through windows at the same level as it. Occasionally the rumbles of thunder would even come from below. Nagi felt light-headed.

Somewhere in the labs Farfarello had closed his single eye. The lightening was running through the equipment, the technicians fleeing the sparks and arcs of electricity. Apparently the lightning conductor couldn't do its job when hit from beneath. The shocks made him tingle. Schuldig had ruined him somehow, but it was good to know that when the loss of his sense became too much there was a release. God had punished his transgressions by taking away his connection to his nerves. The devil had stirred a storm to show him what he could take back. Even the light touch of pain was enough to have him straining in his bonds. He'd worked hard to deserve this. 

Schuldig had chucked a bunch of third years out of their room to get as close to Rammi as possible without the other boy picking up with emotions. He picked threads from the blanket. In the back of his head he could feel Farfarello trembling with the weight of the storm. Somewhere else, so far back it didn't even feel like his head he could feel Crawford, faint and lonely. The feelings were dug in so deep he couldn't shield from them. Still, he wasn't a telempath. His own volatile emotions, like waves stirred by the storm outside, flooded Brad's meagre offerings. He wondered if he'd be able to do what he'd have to, tonight.

Brad put away the second bottle of wine in the now powerless refrigerator. He couldn't remember if it was red or white that was best served chilled, or both, but he told himself it didn't matter because he wasn't going to drink it. He listened to the thunder. It connected them, he thought muzzily. It connected everyone in the castle, because now the power's out, and the roar is deafening and the wind could be felt in every corridor. He enjoyed storms like this. If the power wasn't out, he'd go to his room and watch it, playing some suitably melodramatic piece of classic music. The Ride of the Valkyries tonight, maybe. But he didn't go in that room any more. Instead, he sat on the makeshift bed he'd made from the couch, and watched the wall. He didn't know what he was waiting for, but he knew it would come soon. Perhaps if he'd been a little more sober he'd have seen it. He didn't really care, when it got right down to it.

Hertz looked over his desk at the Englishman, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Madame Dubois tugged at her hair and winced when a handful came out, but she hid it before either of the men noticed. Well, Greg had probably noticed, but he was too much gentleman to mention it. Greg reached out. This was something only the eldest trio had perfected, they'd once been told. It was the pinnacle of any telepath's career, and of great credit to those who managed the self-composure to meld with him or her. Hertz felt it reflected their suitability as the next in line. 

Nagi stretched once and settled. Rammi smiled as the eyes closed with a certain finality. It would still be about an hour before he settled into that dreaming portion of sleep which scientists couldn't distinguish from wakefulness. A ripple of alertness spread through the institution, though who was projecting it accidentally was a matter for debate. Minds watched minds. Each knew their own limits.

It was the mental equivalent of a wet dog shaking itself. It almost caught Schuldig by surprise. And then it reached out and the world inverted as he followed.

Nagi's dream had all those elements of a dream, things seen during the day, things seen years ago, people never met and people seen every day. Schuldig and Farfarello were both present, acting out some role. Schuldig cursed. The attacker would notice the switch. Of course, both brought elements of their own psyche. Already there was gun fire outside and children screaming.

Wait…

'Reached out'?

Schuldig gave Farfarello a cursory nod, slightly disturbed that Nagi's subconscious had chosen to dress him as one of the Lab assistants, and left him behind.

Rammi was tired, and slightly unfocused. His shields were strong, but Schuldig was pleased to feel them. If they were that strong, and he was right, there'd have to be some kind of hole. 

When he found it, he regretted being right. He didn't bother slip in. The Indian boy's psyche was of no interest to him. Perhaps he'd had some motivation or justification for what he'd done, what he was doing, but Schuldig wasn't interested. He fought to centre himself, eventually focussing himself in his own body with enough will to cast out those pesky voices that tended to move in whenever he was slightly distracted. And then he set off down the corridor.

Nagi looked between Rammi and Farfarello, aware that something had gone wrong somewhere. Dreams might not make sense, but they usually had narrative, which this did not. Nagi was older, in his dream. At least, other people perceived him as older. He knew that like knew the dream was set in Japan, even though everything looked just like Rosenkreuz. Except... except it wasn't any more. He knew that it was Ireland. He knew that it was India. He knew that it was Germany. He knew that it was Rosenkreuz and it was older than he'd ever dreamed.

Somewhere children were screaming. Farfarello shrugged apologetically, and Nagi walked over to him, wrapping himself around the older boy suddenly. Rammi fumed. Someone laughed.

"Hello, Nagi," the old man smiled.

"Herr Hertz?" Farfarello frowned, curling an arm protectively around the younger boy.

"Brother of." 

"Ah," Farfarello shrugged.

"Rammi's going to cast you out of my head," Nagi said calmly.

"Quite," Rammi said dryly. Nagi spun around, away from Farfarello. Farfarello felt the dream fracture further. Rammi was standing in a jungle, tiger roaming around him. Smoke was rising somewhere behind him, and there were screams. And when Farfarello looked behind himself, a cold church filled the landscape, full of shivering children and a large man with a gun. Though they were all silent, Farfarello could still hear the shrieks in his mind. Behind the old man were pits. Nagi craned his neck to look into them, and Rammi copied. Farfarello didn't need to look to recognise a picture he'd seen in history books every time they did World War Two at school.

They all stood separately, apart from Nagi and Farfarello. Each time one of them stepped closer the landscape became crazier, like a broken mirror. The dreams seeped into each other. Tigers roamed Catholic churches, throwing children into pits. All around was smoke. Nagi pulled away from Farfarello, and the smoke suddenly worsened, pouring from burning flesh and exploding bombs and summer-dry villages. And it thickened until it was all there was.

"Clever bairn," Farfarello smirked at fog.

"We're in his head. It's not possible for him to get away," the older man stated calmly. Rammi was shooting sideways looks at Farfarello. "He has no power here," the old man explained. "He's vulnerable."

"Who does have power here?" Farfarello asked. 

"Mentals only," the old man shrugged. "I'm an illusionist. He's a telempath."

"What am I?" Farfarello murmured.

"A wanderer," the old man frowned. "Funny, we haven't had one of you for a long time. Usually related to the old religions."

"The Christian God is the one true God, and the sole being responsible for all of the suffering in the world," Farfarello said seriously. Nagi giggled, somewhere in the smoke. It was a hysterical giggle. Occasionally, Farfarello noticed, the smoke curled into human shapes. Whether they were just the remnants of dreams or whether they were Nagi, they were disturbing and not something Farfarello wanted to draw attention to.

"Irish, aren't you? Probably the descendant of some druid or other," the old man shrugged. "You know, I'm descended form the Marquis de Sade."

Farfarello looked blank.

"Ever heard of Sadism? The word comes from his name."

The Irish boy wasn't particularly impressed.

Nagi's voice came through the smoke, "Come on, Rammi, now!"

Rammi didn't move. Farfarello snarled silently, but his growl was backed by the roar of a tiger, lost and confused in the thick smoke. A child cried.

"Rammi?" Nagi's voice faltered. "The plan?"

"We're working to different plans," Rammi said softly. "I'm sorry, Nagi. I was really getting to like you as well. But this is Rosenkreuz. You have to put yourself first. No hard feelings."

"No hard feelings?" Farfarello stared at him incredulously. "Aye, I'm just going to stand by and let a rapist take over your body and kill you, but never mind, aye?"

Rammi shrugged. "Do you have a point to make?" he asked smoothly.

"No, but I do." 

Rammi's eyes shot open and stared down at the foot of wood protruding from his chest. Next to him, Nagi was limp. Inside that soft head there were now only three inhabitants. Schuldig stared at the bedpost he'd shoved straight through Rammi's ribcage. When he had built up the strength to do that?

It didn't take long for Rammi to die. Perhaps he had had some last words, but Schuldig never got to hear them. Blood poured through his lips as he attempted to speak. He died with pure hate in his eyes. Schuldig leant forwards, on a whim, and kissed the hot bloody lips, tasting them. He watched the body collapse backwards. It was strange how quickly someone could make the transition from person to body. Schuldig liked it when things happened fast. He didn't have the attention span to sit and watch someone die.

He wondered what he'd been scared of. He felt like a child who'd been afraid of the plughole. Sure, all that water could pour down it, but he wouldn't fit, not in the state he was in. The blood soaked the sheets. It took him a moment to realise that Nagi was being drenched in it. Well, probably best not to wake the boy just yet. Who knew what was going on in there?

Farfarello knew, and seeing Rammi disappear so abruptly had worried him. The smoke was pouring away through the hole he'd left. Farfarello wasn't any kind of psychiatrist, but holes in a person's subconscious probably weren't good. As the last of the smoke disappeared Nagi faded back into view, curled in a ball. He was naked. That was the vulnerability the old man had mentioned, manifesting itself.

Nagi was biting his arm. Whichever idiot said you couldn't feel pain in dreams deserves a bit of this, he thought viciously. And it certainly wasn't waking him up. But something odd was happening. The old man was fading. No, distorting, like he was oozing away. Nagi wondered if the smoke was something of his as well. But why would an illusionist hide his prey from himself?

The question went unanswered as the melting man began to run. The hole followed him, almost catching Farfarello's ankle. Nagi froze as the man sprinted towards him, the hole trying to drag him back. His skin was being pulled taut. If this was Nagi's head providing these images, he wished fervently that he was less imaginative. If someone had asked what a man being sucked into a black hole would look like, this is what he'd come up with.

Suddenly, Farfarello moved. It had that paralytic quality, the kind you get just as you wake where your body realises that it's actually frozen to keep it from acting out your dreams, and suddenly you can't act in the dreams either. It looked like his legs weren't working. Nagi had a sudden dread that Farfarello would wake up before he reached Nagi, and he'd be left alone with this Sade ancestor.

Time doesn't stand still in dreams. You've got a limited amount of time with them, maybe half an hour, before you slip into another part of the dream cycle. Somewhere outside, Schuldig tasted Rammi's blood, and Rammi's mother wept, and Brad felt disturbing sensations somewhere in the back of his head, and an Englishman was feeling compelled to act.

"Let him be killed," a harsh German voice said over the sound of a woman's sobs.

The tiger appeared in front of Nagi. It seemed to have lost an eye somewhere in the smoke. Maybe to the IRA bomber, Nagi mused dazedly. He grabbed it, clinging to the fragment of dream. It smelt like Rammi. He pulled himself on top of the tiger, and it began to trot towards the running man. Nagi almost scrambled away, but feeling the coarse fur between his fingers, he decided that, for the last time, he would trust Rammi. As they charged, Nagi's confidence faltered. Farfarello had disappeared. He was alone with a dead man and the figment of somebody else's imagination. 

The hole caught up with the old man and he leaped desperately. His skin was wrenched from him and Nagi hid his face in thickly red fur. The tiger sprung. Nagi tumbled off backwards. He kept falling, past wherever the ground had been before, and he watched as tiger and old man slammed into each other. There wasn't space in his head, he realised dully, for both of them to be there. Nagi could see a single shape, shrinking with distance. A human shape. He waited for it to come after him.

Thunder snarled around Rosenkreuz, and Nagi woke breathless and scared. 


	49. Fragments

Chapter Forty-five – Fragments

The storm was still raging the next day. Hertz took note of which two students failed to appear in lessons, which member of staff failed to turn up to teach and which test subject failed to respond to any test in the Laboratory. He knew perfectly well of their connections to each other and to the dead boy still lying in his bunk with a bedpost through his chest. DuBois was going to be a liability for some time to come.

Schuldig arrived in Crawford's apartment at about three in the afternoon. It was pouring with rain outside, but Crawford hadn't able to bring himself to enter the bedroom so he could look out of the window. Schuldig ignored him as he marched past into the bathroom, carrying an armful of clothing.

After some swearing and the intermittent sound of running water Crawford's curiousty was aroused enough to draw him off of the sofa and towards the bathroom door. Schuldig was standing next to a distinctly pink bath with his arms submerged up to his elbows. The clothes made soft squelching noises as he kneeded them.

"Students have their own laundry facilities," Crawford said eventually.

"They're watched," Schuldig replied shortly. "Do you have any detergent?"

"No," Crawford said calmly. "Staff have their own laundry facilities as well."

"What about bubble bath?" Schuldig suggested. "Or bleach. I bet you have bleach."

"Who did you kill?"

"Rammi. You know, the leech."

Crawford nodded. "They already know it was you."

"Of course they do," Schuldig shrugged it off, "but that's no reason to leave them with actual evidence."

"And bringing your clothes here to wash won't look a tad suspicious?" Crawford rasied an eyebrow.

"You think of a better idea," Schuldig sniffed. On a whim he flicked bloody water at Crawford, almost playfully. Crawford didn't even blink as the pink sud slid down his glasses and landed on his shirt to be lost among a path of red wine stains.

"I'd rather you left," Crawford said eventually.

"Busy," Schuldig said dismissively.

"You have been, recently," Crawford observed. "I feel quite left out."

"That's intentional," Schuldig said calmly.

"Why?" Crawford asked, confused and less than sober.

"I lock you in a dungeon, you don't ask why. I leave you out of one little plan to save a boy you hardly know and you start whining." Schuldig tossed his hair over his shoulder as he turned to look at Crawford. "And I did talk to you about it."

"Really? Was I sober at the time?" Crawford reached out to brush the hair from Schuldig's face.

"I'm beginning to think you haven't been sober for a looong time," Schuldig sneered.

"You're going to be there," Crawford told him. "And I am. And god knows who. Half of Rosenkreuz, apparantly. And some Japanese people."

"Nagi's family?" Schuldig asked curiously.

Crawford frowned. "I think he's an orphan."

"Look, I don't know how this future thing works." Schuldig threw his clothes down in the tub and crossed his arms. "I don't know if it's absolute, or if it's the best bet, or if it's simply a probability. I want it to come true. I do. But with you like this, you're probably going to chuck up half way through the ceremony or something. So, I'm taking charge. My plans are probably a bit different to yours, but I'm in charge. Nagi and Farfarello are behind me. They barely know you. So until further notice, you're going to be left out of it all, you understand. All."

Crawford sat heavily on the toilet, lid already fastidiously down, and looked up at Schuldig. He leant back and spread his arms, a sort of shoulderless shrug. Schuldig's stomach clenched. So, he was in charge. Crawford was waiting for orders. Crawford. Oh, it was all just head games, but he was in charge and whatever he told Crawford to do, he would.

Schuldig went back to kneading his clothes in the bath.

* * *

Nagi lay under his blanket, face inches away from a glowing laptop screen. It was comforting. Rather familiar, and there were the emails he'd exchanged, over a few days and weeks, with the mouldering corpse on the bed above. The blanket over his head was not some comforting cave, but rather a shelter from the dripping blood. The corpse was still fresh, in relative terms. The corpse. The body, at best. Not the person. Not Ra-

Nagi couldn't even allow himself to think the name. It was like an imaginary friend, in a way. Some one who's never existed. He'd never had a friend who'd supported him and helped him defend himself against an already deceased foe. That person had never existed. So, therefore, and even hence, he wasn't dead. Just some young man, some leech, some son of seer, had died deceitfully and was oozing through the thin mattress above him. Or logic along those lines. Despite that very firm, if slightly derailed, train of thought Nagi had cried a little.

He stared at the screen. Currently it was showing a view from the CCTV cameras in the laboratories. Farfarello was limp in his bindings. Asleep. Comatose, maybe. Probably, definitely. Nagi tried to make sense, in physical terms, of what had happened last night. Memories had imprinted themselves into his head, and the accompanying thought patterns. Some of his own memories, he felt certain, had been overwritten. Schuldig hadn't actually done that, though. He had projected his thoughts, manipulated Nagi's brainwaves, but he had irrevocably altered anything. Farfarello had probably done the same. That would have killed him. Rammi and... and _him_ had overwritten bits of Nagi's mind. Illusionists had to, if they wanted to make the illusions permanent. Which had put both Schuldig and Farfarello at a disadvantage.

In some ways, thinking about Rammi being dead wasn't so hard, not when compared to thinking about Farfarello being dead. No matter how sternly Nagi reminded himself he'd barely known the older boy, he knew how badly he'd wanted him. Farfarello had helped him, and expected nothing. Farfarello had never particularly hurt him. Farfarello had died for him, and now his body was just going through the motions in some sickeningly sterilised lab.

His thoughts shied away from that again. Rammi. Think of Rammi instead. Poor dead Rammi in the bed above. Except he'd done something to Nagi, hadn't he? If he'd written bits of himself into Nagi, then he was still around, in a way. But Farfarello was gone completely, without even that record remaining.

Nagi probed his own mind like a tongue probing a wobbly tooth. If his theories were right, Rammi was still around. But... Schuldig had killed him. Perhaps the shock had wiped the memories clear. The illusionist had based the majority of his memories in Rammi, which was why his presence had faded rapidly. There wasn't enough of him in Nagi's brain to survive, so that last image had been... what? Something that could erase Farfarello from a distance.

Nagi didn't want to consider the possibility of yet another presence in his head. Let the illusionist be powerful. Let him be very powerful, but let him not be powerful enough to be in Nagi's head now. He wondered if any schizophrenic had attacked the voices so rationally. He wondered if begging and praying to something he didn't believe in counted as rational. He wondered who defined rational.

Everything was going insane. Easier to think of it that way than he was going insane. And everything was. People were dying, people were planning to take over the world, people were in and out of other people's heads. It _was_ insane, and apparently it was to be his life from now on.

Aye

Yes.

* * *

Something occurred to Crawford, leaning on his knees in the tiny bathroom, watching Schuldig fail to scrub blood from his clothes. He was remembering scrubbing blood out of his own clothes, too ashamed to take them to the laundry where they were used to it. As always, his mind followed the path back, sliding over the act - the 'act'? He hated that he couldn't even say rape in his own head - and to the moments preceding it, and today back into Hertz's office, where Schuldig had held up his head and used that tone he was using now. Power. When Schuldig had first shown to him that not only did he want power, but he could handle it. He'd failed, obviously, but Crawford knew that Schuldig could lead, if he wanted to.

He had mixed feelings about that. Right now, he wanted to be led. He hated himself was wanting to be led. He was surrendering responsibility for himself. He knew he could take care of himself, knew in a cold knowledge, but part of him was still insisting so violently that he couldn't. He understood regression now. Be a child again. Be what you were before the bad things happened to you, back when people used to protect them for you.

He snorted, which made Schuldig look at him for a second before returning to his washing. He hadn't exactly had a happy, protected childhood, had he? But he'd emerged from it stronger than anyone else he'd met. Not strong like Schuldig, strong with bravado and occasionally strong under pressure, but actually strong, always strong. He knew who he was. Completely. Schuldig had made him doubt that, and he'd hated him for it at first, until he realised that the doubt was part of who he was as well. He'd never liked doubt, but it was very much a fact of life.

And he had had no regrets.

No, he _had_ no regrets. Still didn't.

Crawford blinked at the wall. So… was he still expecting to emerge from this yet stronger? He'd given up on that idea weeks ago, he was sure. Or perhaps… perhaps things he had no control over didn't count as regrets. Though surely he regretted his lack of control.

No, he didn't. He didn't regret it. He hadn't lacked control before, not like that. Now he had. Now he knew what it could do to a person. A useful weapon. Being chained up, completely dependent: very demoralising. Being tortured and raped: last resorts. Most people, especially if they've lost hope already, aren't going to be much use after that. The only worse thing you can do is kill them. They might want to die.

It occurred to Brad that he didn't want to die. He kept that thought, filed it away like he did the visions, ready to be retrieved at a moments notice. Hertz wanted him to curl up and die. He wasn't going to pander to that man. But… He wasn't strong, just yet. Wasn't ready. Not wanting to die was just a start, like the not regretting. It still didn't mean the repercussions of what had happened to him weren't echoing around his skull. He still felt sick thinking about it, he still wanted to avoid humanity for eternity. He still wanted to do something equally painful and demoralising to Hertz. And kill those who had done it. He wanted to kill a lot of people, but it wouldn't help, would it?

Brad could feel the hangover creeping up on him. A little bit queasy, a slightly sore head. Teeth that felt like carpet and lips that felt swollen. Dry eyes. He needed more alcohol. It took him two attempts to get to his feet, but Schuldig was ignoring him now. He found a half drunk bottle of wine by the couch and collapsed onto the seat, drinking straight from the bottle. It was very hard to wash cups and glasses when you were drunk, he'd found.

* * *

He hung so limp and so empty he might as well have been dead. When he didn't respond to tests there was some debate as to whether he was, but one enterprising technician managed to take the creature's pulse. So slow he ought to be dead, he was, in fact, alive. They were used to a lack of response to physical tests, but now he wasn't responding to mental tests.

A telempath was called in, a tall blond man with sharpened teeth. Every mental psychic in the facility knew Farfarello's distinctive mental signature, even if they'd never met him face to face. A telepath might have been more accurate, but no one dared ask Hertz for Schuldig. It wasn't as though he could be trusted to be truthful anyway. For all they knew he was harbouring the creature.

Someone was, the telempath confirmed. No, he couldn't pinpoint who. Their own signature was weak and contained, and practically smothered by the black and red blot of Farfarello's consciousness. They might be aware of him, they might not. They might be completely controlled by him. Watch for messy deaths.

At least Hertz was happy now, one of the technicians commented as he spoonfed the living corpse. The creature dead, the boy weak and vulnerable, the seer abandoned by his powerful allies and the telepath who had overcome the last principle. They were tearing each other apart, he said confidently. The boy won't stay with anyone who kills, the telepath won't take orders any more and the seer is basically powerless alone. The only group that could have stood against Hertz, May and DuBois was fragmenting as they spoke.

They might even have been able to stand against the Estet, an awestruck girl breathed.

On the other hand, a quiet technician pointed out, did they really want things to stay the same?

The next day only the original speaker lived. You do not talk heresy in front of one of Hertz's pet telepaths.


	50. Picking up PiecesU

Chapter Forty-Six – Picking up pieces

The rumour went round that there were to be spot checks. On what, no one was quite sure, but the pyromaniac two rooms down said he'd seen a telempath in tow. Nagi heard them outside the door. He didn't really care what they were checking for - cleanliness, attendance, psychological damage... He was screwed on all counts. The room stank of decaying flesh.

When they came, they didn't say anything. A look at him, a look around the room, and they left.

When the cleaners came, they didn't disturb him.

When three new roommates moved in, Nagi having apparently graduated to the next year without even turning up to classes, they avoided even looking at him.

Then Schuldig came.

"Mon petit ami!" Schuldig said, spreading his arms flamboyantly.

Nagi had fully intended to ignore him, as everyone else, but he couldn't stop himself form asking, "Doesn't that mean 'my boyfriend' in French?"

Schuldig shrugged with one shoulder. "Aren't you glad I'm here?"

"No."

"Oh, Nagi." He was laughing softly, but not in a way that upset Nagi, which was odd, since other people being alive tended to upset him at the moment. "How are the room mates?" Schuldig asked after a moment of swinging his legs and scuffing his feet.

"I have room mates?" Nagi snorted.

Schuldig ruffled his hair.

"I have a plan."

"Oh dear."

"Oh, don't worry, you're not part of it. Unfortunately, that means you'll have to die along with everyone else, but c'est la vie." Schuldig shrugged again.

"Everyone else?"

"Well, you're useless to me right now."

Nagi glanced over at him, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Useless?"

"Ja."

"Can you keep a secret, Schuldig?"

Intrigued by this sudden change to Nagi's recent relentless apathy Schuldig leant in. Nagi studied him solemnly, the effect only marred by that rogue lip, which kept twisting upwards. It was a smile almost as frightening as Crawford's, or Schuldig's own. Schuldig found himself catching his breath. The kid was well taught.

The bed disintegrated first, it's components flinging themselves towards separate walls. The other bed went much the same way, and then the window blew out. The door, meant to open inwards, burst out with enough power to dent the opposite wall. Plaster began to fall from the ceiling.

"Precisely what is this secret?" Schuldig asked.

Everything stilled. The door slammed back into the frame. The glass reformed in the window. Both beds put themselves back together, Nagi's actually sliding under them and lifting both to their original positions.

"I hurt: I harm," Nagi said.

"What class did they have you pegged as?"

Nagi smiled, no teeth.

"I don't think there is a class for me."

* * *

Every night, soft hands traced his scars. Sometimes he felt it, sometimes he didn't. He couldn't never see the owner of the hands, and frequently he couldn't even see himself. He wasn't sure whether it was attraction or fascination, or attraction born of fascination.

He liked it, in a way. It fit no description of any afterlife in any version of the Bible. He was alive, and imprisoned was just another word for challenge.

* * *

"Why don't you put on some music?"

And to his surprise and utmost horror, Crawford did. Abandoning his clothes in the bath, having come back yet again to continue wringing the blood out, Schuldig made his way rapidly to the main room. For a brief, insane, moment, he though Crawford must have gone into the bedroom. Instead, after a moment's wild staring he spotted a pair of feet hanging over an arm of the sofa, which faced away from him. He stalked over to peer down at Crawford, lying stretched out on the couch yet again. It began to dawn on Schuldig just how much of his time his old mentor was spending there now.

"You need a new project," Schuldig breathed through his teeth. Sticking his hands in his pocket he moseyed around the couch to squat by Crawford's head.

"Are you going to chain me up again to find out what it is?" Crawford asked quietly, never opening his eyes.

"A few months ago an ambition like I've never felt hit this place. You make Hertz and the rest of them small fry. Hell, you probably make look like Hitler small fry."

"Thanks," Crawford said dryly.

Schuldig grimaced good-humouredly. "Made me horny," he said casually. "But then, your power trips always did. I never got it until I killed Rammi. It's just _wow_. Like being hit by a tidal wave of adrenaline and stuff."

"It can be addictive," Crawford commented.

"You think I haven't noticed?" Schuldig stood up and began pacing. "I never knew it was so easy. I mean, I've got a huge list of people I want dead. I can't see why I was so fussed before. Hertz, DuBois, every technician in those labs, even you, before you got so pathetic."

Crawford opened his eyes and blinked at the water-stained ceiling. "Me?" he asked. And then, "I'm pathetic?"

"Yeah," Schuldig shrugged. "You've got a real talent for pissing me off. I left you to die, but hell, now I just want to shoot you. You've got a gun, haven't you?"

"You can't use my bath for washing and then just shoot me!" Crawford spluttered, sitting up.

"Why not? I don't care if you die with dignity or not," Schuldig grinned at him. "You've killed people, I know you have."

"Many," Crawford said coolly. "And I have the capability to kill many many more."

Schuldig snorted. "You're not the only wino to stake that claim. Tell me, do you think you're Kaiser Wilhelm too?"

Crawford stood up, making use of those five or six inches he held over Schuldig. Despite the hair, he could still look over Schuldig's head. He smirked at the wall.

"I thought killing a man might make you one yourself, as it did me, but I suppose I was mistaken," he said calmly. "I don't like being mistaken, Schuldig."

Schuldig laughed. "I've been a man longer than you," he scoffed.

"Men don't walk around boasting about killing people. You're like a boy with a toy soldier."

"You wanna see me kill someone?" Schuldig challenged. "Want to see me rip out someone's throat?"

"You'll just walk out there and kill a stranger, a potentially useful stranger, just to prove your point? Only a boy is so rash."

"Fine. I'll kill Hertz. You can't say he's a random stranger. And he sure as hell ain't useful."

"Of course he is, boy. And not only that, but he would squash you like a bug. What child overestimates their strength like that?"

"The 'boy' thing is getting really old," Schuldig snapped. "And I'm not falling for any of this. I have my plans, you have yours. And I saw that vision of yours where they were the same, and I'm not sure I want in on that."

"What, total anarchy? The destruction of the Estet? The chance to rule the world?" Crawford cocked an elegant eyebrow.

Schuldig pouted childishly. "Not your way," he said eventually. "I know you. You'll leave me to die first chance you get. No use carrying dead weight, you'll say, and have me wander into some suicidal situation without giving me all the facts. Between Nagi and Farfarello you'll have no use for me. I can't wipe out hundreds at once, and I can't slit a throat with the kind of delicacy that wiped out Jei's folks."

"Oh dear," Crawford said, smiling slightly. "You're not jealous, are you?"

"No, just not stupid," Schuldig said firmly. "We have completely different fucking ideologies. Me, anarchist. You, obsessive compulsive control freak. Why would I want to fucking rule the world? I just want to have fun."

"I thought you said that power made you horny," Crawford pointed out, stepping forwards. To Schuldig's credit, he didn't back up, but this left them pressed together. Schuldig _was_ horny.

"My kind of fun wipes out civilisations," Schuldig purred. "I'm not some petty small scale anarchist-at-weekends. You _know_ that. Maybe you will rule the world, but I'll have destroyed it first."

"Good," Crawford said, voice low. He looked down, straight into Schuldig's eyes. "I'll want to start afresh."

"Good," Schuldig said, at a loss for what else to say. Did Crawford want him to kiss him? They were so close. He was so hard.

"So our paths will cross again," Crawford said softly.

"I guess," Schuldig murmured. His eyelids fluttered. He could feel Crawford's breath on his lips.

"No matter what we'll be bound to each other in some indefinable way," Crawford whispered.

"We already are," Schuldig swallowed. Can't you feel it?

"Yes, Schuldig, yes I can."

Schuldig strained up for that precious touch, lips slightly parted, eyes slightly shut. For a brief, hot moment he thought it was going to happen. He could feel the pull of Crawford's mind, the sense of magnetism drawing them ever closer together. But while Schuldig stood, head tilted back, Crawford didn't move. Cold eyes fixed on him through distant glasses and as Schuldig focused on him properly the coldness leaked into his own form. He felt the chill in his stomach and in his heart. He felt it in his mind, and knew that this was how Crawford killed, without that hot rush and mad thump that Schuldig now knew.

He staggered backwards just in time. The bullet embedded itself in the wall with a sound that reminded Schuldig of the end of the world. For a moment he just crouched and blinked, hands half upraised.

"You have a lot of work to do yet," Crawford said calmly. "Boy."

This time, Schuldig didn't correct him. He let himself out.


	51. Self Improvement

**Chapter Forty-Seven - Self Improvement**

Nagi was surprised to find he was taking the general studies course again. He'd thought he'd made it clear that he was perfectly well educated. Maybe, now he had a better grasp of German, they wanted to see how well he truly did. He was also back in the Estet Studies and Psychic History classes, much to his irritation. They'd tried brainwashing. They'd failed.

After his little display to Schuldig, he'd decided that perhaps it was time to emerge from the covers again. They were tolerating him for now, but he knew that his insubordination would only be allowed to last so long. They still thought him a weak telekinetic, a minor power. He wasn't sure if his situation would get better or worse if they found out the extent of his talents.

He folded his hands neatly in front of him as he followed his fellow students through the corridors. All in their neat grey, all with their neat hair, all with their empty minds. He could feel it, the flatness of the thoughts. Was that a side effect of spending time with Schuldig, or a talent of his own?

He didn't recognise the neat man standing at the front of the class for several seconds. Then his eyes widened and he stopped abruptly, the windows rattling. Crawford met his eyes for a second, his face perfectly blank. When Nagi sat down he was biting back a smile.

Last time he and Crawford had happened to be in this class at the same time, Crawford had been barely conscious. He'd looked like he'd crawled off the streets.

The suit was crisp and white. The glasses polished so thoroughly Crawford's eyes weren't visible at any point during the whole class. Even his shoes shone. He corrected mistakes before they were made, and stopped fights before they began. It made Nagi a little breathless.

At the end of the class Crawford signalled for him to stay behind.

"You've come a long way in your studies," Crawford said, and Nagi knew he wasn't talking academically.

"Thank you, sensei."

"It seems to me, though, that you might still benefit from some private tutoring in other areas," Crawford told him. "Much as Schuldig did, in fact."

This surprised Nagi. He had suspicions about what had gone on between Crawford and Schuldig, but he hadn't thought Crawford's tastes extended... further.

"I will be frank," Crawford said, apparently guessing the direction of Nagi's thoughts. "You are powerful, and it seems you will be useful to me, but not as you are. I can easily argue that your nationality will be helpful when it comes to the posting I expect to receive in the future, but there are other Japanese students. Your talent is useful, but not unique."

Crawford leant back in his chair, studying Nagi intensely.

"Schuldig told you about my vision," Crawford stated. Nagi saw no need to agree or disagree. "I was not surprised by the people I saw. Do you know what links the four of us?"

Nagi frowned, thinking about it. It couldn't be ideology, or intentions. Farfarello, Schuldig, Crawford and himself all wanted different things, and wanted to go about getting them in different ways.

Crawford looked surprised for a second, before smiling in apparent amusement.

"Sexual desire?" Nagi guessed.

"I wasn't aware it did, but if you say so," Crawford conceded smugly. "No, Nagi, that was not the binding agent I recognised."

Nagi sat up straighter and leant towards the desk. Crawford responded in like.

"Ambition."

"But... We don't all want the same thing."

"But we all want something."

Nagi shook his head, still confused.

"In this school, the only thing you are meant to want for the future is the ascension and security of Rosenkreuz. We all want something bigger than that, for ourselves."

"We're too selfish for the system?" Nagi smirked.

"Exactly."

Nagi nodded. Until they were free, they couldn't stop butting their heads against the wall of Rosenkreuz. Rosenkreuz wouldn't tolerate them. They'd shown that when they took Farfarello away.

Nagi's eyes widened and his head snapped up.

"Farfarello. He's..."

"Not dead," Crawford confirmed. "Missing."

Nagi's relief was evident in his smile.

"We need to work on your poker face," Crawford observed.

"Is that what the tutoring is about?"

"Your survival, yes. Though obviously we will phrase it a little differently to Hertz."

"We have to apply to Hertz?" Nagi tried to hide his fear, but suspected he was only confirming Crawford's conviction he needed help.

"How's your English?" Crawford asked, raising an eyebrow.

Nagi blinked. "We could improve it."

"Good."

* * *

Farfarello twitched in his bindings. The scientists fell silent for a second, all turning to stare at him in trepidation, but no further movement was forthcoming. After several minutes, they resumed their previous tasks.

Schuldig jabbed his hand between the ribs of his fellow student, watching him double over with satisfaction. As he fell the gun he'd been holding slipped from his grip, to be caught in mid air by the smirking German.

Schuldig raised the gun to eye level, ignoring the groaning clairvoyant. It was cheap, and foreign, and almost certainly illegal. It was also slim and light, and fit into his pocket without changing the line of his jacket.

He cocked his head to one side and looked around at his three attackers. He remembered now why he rarely slept in the room assigned to him. He kicked the clairvoyant in the head, slamming him against the wall and shattering his skull. Something foul oozed from the mess as his body went into spasms. Another student was slumped at his feet, black and crispy. Schuldig couldn't remember what his talent was, but he'd made a good shield against the third room mate.

The pyrokinetic hauled himself to his feet, moving away from Schuldig as he did so. Schuldig let him. After all, no matter how crap the gun, a bare foot shouldn't make much difference.

The pyro raised both hands as a sign of surrender, though with someone of his talent it could just as easily be the beginnings of an attack. Schuldig reached out, and confirmed his first impression was correct, for the moment.

"Congratulations," the young man said in English, though his accent was different from any Schuldig had heard so far.

"Danke," Schuldig sneered, using his own tongue out of petty spite.

"You do know, don't you, that you're far from safe?" The pyro said, half collapsed against the wall. "These games don't work against us phys students."

"What are you going to do, flambé me?" Schuldig laughed. "You'll be dead before I'm even lightly crispy."

"You're never been badly burnt, have you?" The pale young man shook his head, singed hair swaying in front of his eyes. "It was a pre-emptive strike. We won't be the only ones. After you killed DuBois's son, people have come to realise no one is sacred. You ought to have been killed by the triumvirate, but you're still here. So people are taking things into their own hands."

Schuldig struggled for a name, and came up with a breakfast cereal.

"Look, Bran, you tried, you failed, now I get to kill you all," Schuldig explained.

"You mispronounced my name."

"Do I look like someone who cares?"

"Killing us is a waste of resources."

Schuldig rolled his eyes. "You sound like Crawford."

"Crawford is a clever man."

Schuldig laughed. "Can't argue with that. So, Bran," he mispronounced, "what can you offer me?"

"Fire."

Schuldig tensed, expecting an attack. None was forthcoming. Nor was an explanation.

"Don't need any, thanks. Go find some Stone Age reject."

"It's always good to have reinforcements. Your powers are mental. Mine are physical. For a start, I can guarantee this will never happen to you again."

"That's a shame," Schuldig said. "I kind of enjoyed it. I discovered recently that, well, I kind of enjoy killing." He grinned ferociously and shot Bran. Bran's eyes widened and he sank to the floor, flames springing up around him.

Schuldig thought he'd been kind. Bran would probably survive long enough for a healer to find him.


End file.
